The Letter
by trytryagain357
Summary: Sometimes, when you've given up on getting answers, that's when they come to you.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Sometimes, when you've given up on getting answers, that's when they come to you.

Rating: K+ (there's a little violence in the prologue, not graphic)

Author's Note: If you want to know how much I enjoy Castle, I haven't published a fan fic in about ten years, and now there's this. It would not leave me alone until it got written, which is sort of annoying, because writing is a ponderous, tooth-pulling process for me. And this had to go and be a multi-parter. I feel like the Tin Man before Dorothy did her oil can thing. My apologies in advance.

BTW, this, but for some paranoid tweaking on my part, is already a completed story. If I'd posted the prologue and didn't have the rest of it already written, I was afraid I'd never finish, so take heart if you start it, I've already slogged through to the end.

Disclaimer: The only Castle I own is in DVD format. Castle belongs to Andrew Marlowe, ABC, and probably some other people, none of whom is me. I am not making any money here.

The Letter

by

Loretta Berkeley

* * *

The elevator door slides open on his floor and Castle pats down his own pockets for keys.

"Jacket, left," Kate supplies, never even looking up from her magazine.

He reaches in for them and shakes his head. "You really do remember everything you see. There has got to be job where you can use that skill."

"Oh, there is," she states. He can hear the eye roll.

It's been a little over a week since the rooftop battle with Cole Maddox and her subsequent suspension and resignation. Castle has been hesitant to be the one to bring it up, but based on a couple of comments earlier in the morning, apparently Kate has decided her job situation is no longer off limits.

As he's sifting through the keys with one hand, he reaches back to cup the back of her head with the other, and plants a kiss in her wavy brown hair. Sort of brown. She'd gotten bored over the weekend and made an appointment with her stylist for highlights. It's never been this light, at least not in the time Castle has known her. She looks like she belongs on the beach, and he's trying to talk her into rounding up their families and going to the Hamptons. But things are still basically awful between Ryan and Esposito, and she's determined to stay in town and keep harassing Espo about it until her boys are on speaking terms. The thought of taking off on a family vacation and leaving that relationship broken, and broken because of her, doesn't sit well. She's losing sleep over it.

Kate is still engrossed in her magazine when Rick stops abruptly, a few feet from the door. She smacks into his shoulder, but he barely moves.

"Castle?"

A grunt is all she gets back. She looks up to see his right hand suspended in the air, front door key halted mid-way to the lock. The door jamb is covered in tool marks, where someone has tried to force it open. As is the face of the lock.

"I-uh, spent extra on the lock, it's supposed to the unpickable." He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and palms it to test the door handle. It holds fast. Whomever it was, they didn't get in.

_Click._

In unison, they swing right, looking down the long hallway. The pneumatic closer has just pulled the heavy stairwell door closed with a metallic snap. The top of a head of dark, close-cropped hair, bobs briefly in the narrow, vertical window and disappears down the stairs. _Maddox._

Beckett's right hand sweeps back her jacket and slaps the empty place at her hip. Muscle memory. She grits out an oath.

Her partner is off like a rocket, already half way to the door. "Castle, NO!" Beckett hisses, but he only slows a fraction, to jerk a fire extinguisher out of its cradle on the wall, before hitting the crash bar with his full weight. He crosses the stairwell landing in one stride and is taking the steps down in doubles.

Kate clears the door at full speed, right behind him, even before it can bounce back on its hinges. Tears are burning at the back of her throat and eyes. He's going to die. Castle is going to die, a couple of floors down in the stairwell of his apartment building. And if Castle is going to die because of this, because of her, the very least she can do now is make certain she dies with him. Beckett throws herself over the middle divider, skipping the bottom three steps of the half-flight and landing two down on the next. Castle is just ahead of her now, although she loses precious time getting upright and moving again. He's rounding the next landing now, and by the pounding of footsteps ahead, is catching up with Cole Maddox.

It's unreal how recklessly he's throwing himself down the stairs, flying toward his goal. She's never seen him move so fast, never loved his foolish heart more than now. Beckett knows she will never deserve this, never be able to do enough to earn it. She's so tired of this, and if they catch up with Maddox, they're definitely going to die. It's a relief, in a way, to know she'll never have the opportunity to fail at making this all up to him.

Kate sees her partner's face when he turns to face down the next flight, and knows by his eyes that Maddox is right below. The fire extinguisher has been swinging wildly from his left hand as he runs. Castle never breaks stride as he hoists the cylinder and whips it with all his might down the stairs, out of her view.

What Kate cannot see, she definitely hears. First contact is not with a cinder block or concrete stairs, but something softer, before it clangs to the ground. Castle is still moving, and she loses him for a second as she clings to the bottom hand rail and half swings, half slides on her knees around to face down the next flight.

Kate can hardly believe her eyes. Cole Maddox stumbles heavily into the wall below. He's shaking his head, and the stream of blood pouring down his scalp splatters in heavy drops across the landing. It's a lot of blood. Maddox reaches for the small of his back where the butt of a pistol protrudes from his waistband. The Glock just breaks free from Maddox's holster as Castle reaches him and paws it away from the killer's shaky hand. It clatters away down the next flight of stairs. Maddox strikes out blindly, catching Castle in the gut, but it's a glancing blow, and Castle answers by hammer fisting Maddox's already swimming head into the concrete wall.

Maddox is falling. On the way down, he strikes out with his right foot, landing a solid blow to the inside of Castle's knee, and then they're both on the ground.

She's at their landing now, scrambling for it. The gun is a few steps below her, so close. She can end this, if she can just get the gun.

In the next instant, Kate's feet are swept out from under her and she crashes to the floor. She's half on the landing and half down the stairs before she realizes Maddox has a fistful of her left boot. She kicks free and thanks the assassin with a face full of the same. There is a stabbing pain in her right wrist, has no doubt it's broken. Kate is reaching for the handrail with her left to pull herself upright again when in her periphery, sees Castle use the fire extinguisher to push himself to his knees above Maddox. He grits his teeth through the pain in his leg and hoists the bulky red canister above his head, repeating the same two words over and over-

"No more, no more, no more, no more..."


	2. Chapter 2

The crunch of nearby leaves makes Kate flinch and look up from her book. Even now, well out of danger, surprises are hard to take. The honk of a car horn, Alexis' new kitten knocking a plastic cup off the kitchen counter, Rick entering their bedroom in socked feet when she's completely engrossed in a book – it all runs her heart rate up a little. Not like before, not like the aftermath of her shooting. Just a jolt of adrenaline and a half a lifetime of the creeping unknown adding up to a bad startle response. She hates it. Doctor Burke says it's understandable, and that time is the only cure.

Behind her, the footsteps grind to a halt.

"I'm sorry, young lady. I didn't mean to surprise you. Yours is just the nearest bench, and my bad knee is talking to me. Mind if I sit down for a minute and rest?"

A sport coat, slacks, and a head full of silver hair. Kate realizes she is stink-eying a grandfather with a limp, and relaxes a little. "Sure, no problem."

"Thank you," he says and drops down on the far end of the bench. He leans in with a wink, sharing a secret. "It's a drag getting older."

She smiles against her will. "You don't look all that that worse for wear."

"Ah, tell my orthopedist that." He grits his teeth, rubbing a hand over his left knee. "When the weather changes, it protests a lifetime of jogging in the city. All concrete then, no cartilage now. "

"Something for me to look forward to, I guess." Kate smiles politely. She returns her attention to the book and scans for her lost place on the page.

In her periphery, the man leans forward a little, getting a better look at her, and a low chuckle rises up out of his chest. "Look at you, how wonderful! I have a daughter-in-law who's expecting, I imagine you're about as far along as she is. What are you, six months?"

She closes the book with a finger to mark her place. "Six months next week," Kate answers before thinking. She's not exactly running off at the mouth, but still. It must be the hormones. The star of this conversation picks this moment to flip over in her belly and stretch out. Kate bites back a smile and soothes a hand over a little bump – a protruding elbow, or maybe a foot, she's never really sure.

"That's so great, your first?" he inquires.

This should be driving her nuts, these personal questions from a complete stranger. But there is something pleasing about this older gentleman, the purposeful way he carries himself, a winsomeness in his address. A story to be told, she's thinks. Castle has taught her to love the story.

Kate absently twists the channel set wedding band on her ring finger. A new habit of late, one of several, so much nervous energy. Castle, with affection, calls them her baby ticks. She can't just take off and run ten miles in her current state, and the pent up feeling has to go somewhere. Today, on her day off, it took her to the park.

Remembering his question, she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, you asked - we have an older daughter."

"We? The lucky dog."

"Not so lucky today. He's been in meetings all day, they drive him crazy."

"Married with kids," he laments and shakes his head. "Good thing I'm too old to flirt with lovely young women in the park. I'd be sore out of luck today."

Kate laughs. Out loud. Really, it must be the hormones. Clearly there will be no getting back to her book (one of _his_, which she has read four times before). Kate drops it into the worn, canvas messenger bag at her feet and turns toward the man, taking in his open countenance and weathered laugh lines. She's accustomed to picking apart suspects and locating the causes for concern. Nothing pervy yet. No cop radar going off. Just a nice old guy who likes to talk.

She's probably missed the opportunity for a lot of conversations like this over the course of her adulthood. Burke keeps telling her to be more open to little unplanned moments in her life. She tells Burke he sounds like a bumper sticker. Still...

"I'm Kate."

"Charles, nice to meet you, Kate."

She takes the hand he offers - warm, but brief. She's relieved when he retreats back to his end of the bench.

"Does your family live here?" she asks.

His gaze falls to his hands, now clasped together at his knees. "Yes, my son and daughter-in-law live in the city, but I'm not here much and I don't get to see them like I'd like to. And honestly, with my work, I haven't made choices that allowed us to be close. But it does me good to see them happy and doing well, so that's something, I guess."

He looks back up at her, trying for a smile, but it comes off more like weariness.

Kate studies him, nods in understanding. "Regrets are kind of unavoidable, in my experience. I'm sure they know you've done your best."

Something passes across his face. Longing maybe? The intensity of it is hard to miss. Charles looks beyond her, past the trail with its joggers, to a small playground where a half dozen boys and girls take turns at the slide and swings.

"I...no, probably not." It's barely audible, and he sighs, heavily, as if this conversation is suddenly too much to continue.

A breeze blows across the lawn, and Kate's visitor pushes off the seat, like he's being carried away with it. "Thank you for permitting my little intrusion into your solitude...and for sharing the bench. I need to get moving again."

Kate makes to rise as well, feeling like there is some farewell to be said. He waves her off. "Sit, dear girl. No, need to trouble yourself."

"Thanks." Kate hopes her smile is reassuring. There's an edge on the breeze, and she tugs her cardigan closed in the front. He's on his feet now, but isn't making any forward progress, and Kate's gaze narrows a little. "Knee not cooperating?"

"No, it's fine. But Kate...may I trespass on your kindness just once more?"

Part puzzled, part intrigued, Kate asks on a laugh. "Since it's been absolutely no trouble so far, what's on your mind?"

The older man shakes his head at first, clearly second-guessing. Then, slowly, with two fingers, as if he's afraid to alarm her, he draws an ivory-colored envelope from the inside breast pocket of his coat.

"Would you please take this?" His expression is suddenly earnest, determined. "For him?"

There is one word written across the envelope in bold script.

_Richard._

Kate draws back, glares, her posture now rigid, on alert. A fan? Who apparently knew she would be in the park. In all these years, she has never been recognized on the street without Castle. Six months pregnant, not exactly in fighting form, it's more unnerving than she would have imagined.

About thirty yards to her left, a jogger has been stretching and cooling down for a couple of minutes, but he's the only other adult within earshot. She feels isolated, and dislikes it. A lot.

Without ever breaking eye contact, Kate drags a heel back to make contact with her bag on the ground. She knows the flap is already open. It's ridiculous, Charles must be 65 years old, but knowing exactly where the bag is, and by extension, exactly where her off duty piece is, makes it easier to force her heart rate back down. The baby must feel the adrenaline, too, and kicks her sharply under the ribs. She flinches, struggling to keep her face neutral.

Something of her heightened state of vigilance must be translating, because Charles drops the envelope on the bench and backs up a couple steps; arms by his side, but palms open toward her, a gesture to indicate no threat.

"It's a letter. One that's long overdue. I don't intend to intrude where I'm not wanted. I just want to explain some things he's probably wondered about for a long time."

She's shaking her head; this is all too strange. "I'm sorry, but-"

"Kate, I'll go now. But please, just give that letter to my son."


	3. Chapter 3

Kate accidentally steps on the corner of her canvas bag as she rises, and stumbles back into the bench. A steadying hand grasps her forearm. A broad hand, square nails, a firm but gentle grasp. Kate studies that hand, finds she already knows its lines and planes. A younger version of it handed her a mug of hot tea earlier this morning, brushed the hair back from her face and drew her near for a kiss.

She shakes him off, but doesn't look up right away, schooling her features, tamping down the crazy pounding in her chest with a couple deep breaths through the nose. Then she pulls back a little to take in Charles' height, his broad chest and shoulders, the straight nose and line of his jaw. Intense blue eyes, even more so than Castle's, wait patiently for it, some hint of acceptance, but her interrogation room face is firmly set. Until-

"You must be deadly at the poker table, Kate." He turns to leave, and something breaks loose in her.

"What? No! If you're who you say you are, then stay," Kate blurts out in a rush. She grimaces, irritated with herself.

"I think it'll be better if I don't. Easier."

A stronger breeze comes and blows a loose curl over her eyes. Kate brushes it away in frustration. "Easier for whom?" She swipes the envelope up from the seat and holds it up between them. "This can't be a lifetime's worth of answers, not even close."

She's all fiery intensity now, statuesque and authoritative, even in her maternity. A smile flirts at the corners of his mouth, but Charles buries it when her gaze narrows even more. How many times has his son been on the receiving end of this glare? He's seen dozens of pictures, but in person? Fiercely beautiful Kate. Captivating. No wonder Richard is crazy about her.

Charles nods toward the canvas bag, where the butt of her subcompact Glock barely peeks out from behind the book, "I've been in this game a lot longer than you, Kate. Nikki Heat or not, you won't be able to detain me, or persuade me for that matter. And the last thing I want is for my son to find his pregnant wife handcuffed to a park bench in Central Park."

The challenge hasn't entirely faded from her glare. "This _game_?"

"Martin Danberg knows exactly who I am. He lied to you both that day in the precinct, but he was right to do it."

Real confirmation, more than just her gut reaction. Kate's ire sags a little under the weight of it.

Charles takes the younger woman's silence as an opening, and presses on. "Sophia Turner was an epic disaster for more than you two, believe me. I didn't recruit her, but I was entirely responsible for Richard's introduction to her."

"Thanks for that, really." Kate is all sarcasm now.

"One of my biggest regrets. I'm glad you both survived it."

"Barely." She can taste the foul Hudson River again and swallows down a faint gagging sensation.

"I was overseas at the time she made her play. I'm really sorry."

A whistle, loud, to the left. Kate swings toward it, and sees the jogger from before, watching them and subtly tapping his wrist with two fingers. She huffs in disbelief. "Seriously? This is some kind of op?"

"I wasn't kidding about the knee, I don't move as fast as I used to. At my age, I'm more about the planning than the execution. I keep a couple of guys around I really trust."

Kate eyeballs the agent's jogging attire and makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat. "Your man there is a Mets fan. How good can he be?"

The laughter that bubbles up out of Charles makes her heart twist in her chest. She has heard it a thousand times. No doubt. None at all.

"It could be worse, Kate. At least it's not a Red Socks jersey."

A rueful shake of her head. "Can't argue that."

"You actually owe that Mets fan a rather unusual debt of gratitude."

"I don't see how, that shirt is almost unforgivable."

"Kate, he's the last person who saw Representative Stephen Winter alive, and...the first one who saw him dead."

Her breath leaves with a whoosh, the strength in her legs with it. The park bench is just behind Kate's knees, and she gropes for it and sits down. She'd put her head between her knees if the swell of belly would allow for it. As it is, she braces her hands against the metal slats of the bench and prays the leaves under her feet will stop spinning soon.

It's been just over two years since a badly injured Cole Maddox told everything he knew to a federal prosecutor in exchange for a new name and a new life. The fallout was instantaneous. Before the FBI could take U.S. Representative Stephen Winter into custody for questioning, Winter disappeared. The disgraced congressman surfaced a week later in a non-extradition country, flush with drug money from a Swiss bank account, unrepentant and untouchable.

Or so he'd thought.

Charles watches Kate's expression turn to granite, the set of her jaw so tight it looks painful. He starts to form a word, but she cuts him off. "How soon did you know?" she grits out. "How long did Winter operate unchecked while the government twiddled its thumbs?"

"No, Kate, not even...we didn't know until the FBI did. You're Richard's..." Charles blows out a frustrated breath. "Kate, I wouldn't have allowed it."

The fog of shock clears a little, and it hits her, the realization. Kate, wide-eyed, speaks in a steadier voice than she thought possible. "He was killed overseas."

"Yes."

"You can't operate domestically."

"The agency is barred by federal law from certain..._practices_...on U.S. soil."

"You let Winter go."

"We knew where he was every minute of the way, but yes, we needed him off US soil in order to act. Winter sat on sensitive committees, so much domestic and foreign intelligence data. He was an extraordinary liability. You'll never find anyone to admit it on the record, but it was a sanctioned hit."

The scandal had rocked New York and Washington D.C. alike. The congressional hearings lasted five weeks, and in the end, the FBI arrested four of Winter's D.C. employees, twelve more among his New York office and household staff. With their architect in the wind, one by one, the members of Winter's drug empire turned on one another, all the way down to the street-level drug dealers. The final tally was 41 convictions, the confiscation of nearly $30 million in cash and drugs, and a gaping hole in the drug trade in Washington Heights and the city at large.

A week into the hearings, Beckett's phone rang at 3:37 a.m. The U.S. attorney had staggering news. Half a world away, Stephen Winter was discovered by a Moroccan hotel employee, face down by his Jacuzzi tub, a, double-edged tactical knife protruding from his ruined kidney.

The New York Times headline the next morning said it all: "Corrupt Congressman Lives, Dies, by the Sword." The accompanying article detailed the manner of death of Representative Stephen Winter, and drew the obvious parallel to the stabbing deaths of prominent civil rights attorney Johanna Beckett, her colleagues Diane Cavanaugh and Jennifer Stewart, and court house clerk Scott Murray. Together the group had stumbled upon evidence of wrongdoing that Winter knew would eventually tie back to his organization. They had been executed by a contract killer working at Winter's direction, Dick Coonan. Coonan was years later dead by the hand of Beckett's own daughter, NYPD homicide detective Kate Beckett, in a justified shooting. The younger Beckett's tireless investigation into the death of her mother was an ongoing threat to Winter's criminal enterprise. More thugs were dispatched, more lives lost. Detective Beckett narrowly escaped death herself on several occasions, including a sniper's bullet to the heart at the funeral of her own fallen police captain.

The Times concluded that someone in a position to make good on the threat was sending a clear message to any remaining vestiges of Winter's empire: continue at your own peril.

It was over.

Kate cried for two days.

Castle bought a ring.

Kate realizes her eyes are closed, have been for a while. She turns to look at the younger man. He makes no move to approach them, but does take off his sunglasses and allow her to really see him. Clean cut. Military bearing, quietly capable-looking. Six feet tall. Runner's body. Black hair, a little olive in his complexion, part Hispanic maybe. He can't be over thirty years old. He nods, a subtle move, almost like bowing his head out of respect. She'll never know his name. Mets fan. Dragon slayer.

Charles is speaking, she realizes. Kate breaks off her contemplation of the younger agent, and focuses back on her father-in-law.

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

The baby. He's asking about the baby. Kate relaxes back into the seat back and traces a hand over her stomach.

"Like you don't already know?" She wants it to be a joke, but she's not quite there yet.

Charles smiles for her instead. "You'll have to forgive me, but I have to spend my covert capital in areas more directly tied to our national interests. And it's just a lot easier to ask."

The barest hint of a grin. "We're having a boy."

"Richard must be over the moon."

She nods. "His feet haven't touched the ground yet."

"I'm really happy for him. You're a good woman, Kate. You, Richard, Alexis, Martha, you've made a really nice family together. I want that for him."

"Martha, _oh_...she..."Kate's thought fizzles, and she shoots Charles a questioning look.

"She's in the letter, Kate. A lot of what I've told you was too sensitive to put in writing, but Martha, she's in the letter."

"You know Rick will never keep this from her."

"I'd never ask him to. Whatever Martha has or hasn't told our son, the truth is she's not ignorant of what became of me. I can't imagine you keeping this a secret within the walls of your own home. I trust all of you to do what's right. But will you please give me a day to talk to her first? Martha doesn't know that I'm here."

"It's not up to me, but I'll tell Rick you asked."

"Thank you, Kate. I really ought to go now."

"Will Castle ever meet you?" Her anxious tone draws a smirk from Charles, and Kate chews her bottom lip in annoyance. The pretense of a calm, dispassionate exterior is well and truly shot. She laughs to herself. "For what it's worth, I'm usually a lot better at being a hard case."

"Don't feel bad, detective. I planned this so I had all the advantages," he assures with no judgment in his tone. "Tell me, is Alexis still on track to graduate early?"

"She's due out in May," Kate confirms, her gaze narrowing. "And for the record, it's a little creepy that you know that."

"I suppose it is. I'll try to be in town for it. If you're all amenable. Read the letter, see what Richard wants. I...I don't know how he's going to feel about this. But in the meantime, if you need anything, you know how to find Martin, and Martin knows how to find me."

"I'll give the letter to him." Kate blows out a breath and shakes her head. "About the other...I...I just don't even know what to say."

Charles reaches for her hand, and when Kate gives it, he brings it to his lips for a kiss. "Just take good care of my little grandson."

Kate nods. "I can do that."

With that, Charles turns and heads toward the jogging path. Mets fan hangs back until there's about fifty yards between them, nods one last time Beckett, and walks away.

Kate can't help it, she shoots a few pictures from the hip with her I-Phone as they depart. Surreal, there's no other word for it. She's drained. And buzzing with tension. She has so much to tell Castle. The _letter._ She clutches it to her chest and checks the time. Castle is due to call any minute now.

Oh, her sweet husband.

After all this time.

His _father_.


	4. Chapter 4

Kate's visitors disappeared from view a couple of minutes ago, but she can't stop watching. She's still holding the phone when it rings.

"Where are you?" she blurts out, and winces. _Way to sound calm, Kate._

"My cab is coming over on 86th, we're close. Everything okay, Beckett? You sound...off."

"I'm fine. I can be over to 86th and 5th in under five." Terse, too. She'll apologize later. She's already slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"Ooookay, we'll run the meter." Castle's voice is muffled as he relays it to the cab driver.

"No, wait Castle." There's zero chance she can hold this all the way through dinner. And no way she's going to tell him when they're not alone. "Uh, can you meet me on the trail? We need to talk." That sounds awful. "It's not bad, I just need to show you something."

"Freaking me out, here." More muffled instructions to the cabbie.

"I know, I don't mean to. I'm fine, Boo is fine, I promise. I just don't want an audience for this."

He groans. "I'm gonna throw up in Amir's cab, Beckett."

She grits her teeth. Sometimes he's _such_ a drama queen. "Castle, I met someone in the park today, and I want to take a walk, and tell you about it. Can you do that? Take a walk with me?"

"Sure, yeah, okay. We're here. See you in a minute?"

"I'm the other side of the playground, I can almost see the street." She ends the call and slows her pace. They're going to have to backtrack to the trail anyway.

In under a minute, he passes through a line of trees up ahead. He doesn't want to flat-out run and look panicked, but he's impatient for her, and doing a half jog, half walk, pulling off his tie as he goes. It's jerky and awkward looking, and she's laughing at him when he finally gets to her.

"Not cool, Beckett, he whines, pulling her into himself. "Not at all."

Beckett smiles into her husband's kiss; it tastes like coffee and cinnamon Certs. "Longest day ever?"

Castle holds her at arm's length for inspection. He's handsy when he's nervous, skims her from shoulders to finger tips and back again, across her back, down and around to frame her belly. "It got a lot longer about three minutes ago."

"Rick, do I look like there's anything wrong with me?"

"Well, no, but...you just sounded all wrong, and with the baby, and honestly, the park is half full of weirdos, and-"

Kate silences him with another kiss. Forget the trail, the lawn around them is surprisingly empty of other people. She has to do this, _now_.

"Castle, you know in a story when one person tells the other person, 'There's no good way to tell you this?'"

"Heaven help me, Kate, if you're fine and the baby's fine, then _whaaat_?" he exhales on a groan.

Kate is wearing flats, and she gently pulls him down to eye level by his ears."Rick, I...I think I just met your father."

A beat. Two. His mouth falls open, but there's no sound.

Flummoxed? Befuddled. No - gob smacked. Yes, she thinks, especially the smacked part. She's a thesaurus of confusion; under other circumstances she's sure he would delight in the word choices bubbling up in her – wait –

"Rick, breathe."

He gasps. "What?"

Beckett frames his face with her hands and dives in. "He walked up while I was reading, and sat down and struck up a conversation, easy as you please, about his bad knee and my belly and missing his family, and he gave me this." She yanks the envelope out of her bag and holds it between them with a trembling hand and a skeptical eye, like it would be smartest to throw it and duck for cover. "He told me about Martin Danberg and Sophia. He knows that Alexis is getting out of Columbia early. He has your build and your eyes, and, oh, Rick, he has your hands. He has _your_ hands."

"What?" The magnitude of this has reduced her wordsmith to single syllables. She'd like to tease him, break the tension, but...not now, later. Much later. Maybe never.

"And there was another man, younger, dressed as a jogger. Charles said that the younger man took out Stephen Winter. A hit, Castle, a covert assassination, directed by _your_ father. He really is a spook."

"Charles," he breathes out. "His name is Charles?"

"Yes, or that's what he told me, at any rate." She has no idea at what point they ended up in the grass, but they're both kneeling on the lawn, and she's almost in his lap with the letter crumpled between them. She settles back a little and he smooths the envelope out against her thigh. Castle is too calm, maybe. Or just too shocked to do anything else but keep breathing, until...

"But you're okay, right? Kate? I mean, nobody touched you?"

Kate blinks. _Oh. _"He uh... kissed my hand? Odd that I allowed it, but I wasn't really playing my A game."

A nod. "Okay." Castle turns the letter over in his hands, traces a thumb over his printed name. "Okay." He slips the letter in his coat pocket, the same pocket Charles kept it in, she notes, and he takes Kate's hands, drawing them both to their feet.

"Home?" he asks, with an apology in his eyes. "I don't think I can do Mariano's tonight."

"Yeah, sure."

He's calling Wan Two's with their usual order as they head toward the street to hail a cab. It's rush hour. The food will get to the loft before they do.

He doesn't let go of her hand, even to climb in the back seat. He buckles her in like she's a little kid, but his wife has the presence of mind to bite back her natural impulse to gripe. He crowds her from the middle of the seat and turns a face into her hair, laying a heavy hand on her swollen belly as their driver pulls out info traffic.

Forget the longest day ever - it's the quietest cab ride ever.


	5. Chapter 5

The Little Black Box Theater is dark and still. Martha makes her way down the pokey wooden staircase from her second-story office and almost gets to the backstage door before she remembers the broken foot light. One of the college students who auditioned this afternoon must have thought she was trying out for a Fosse review instead of a Sam Shepard play. The girl flew downstage with such abandon that she kicked a prop flowerpot across the worn oak floor and cracked one of the bulbs into a hundred pieces. A stage hand cleaned up the shattered glass, but the bulb still needs replacing. Her stage looks like a gap-toothed child, and it makes Martha blue to see her baby looking anything but perfect. Especially with a potential new producer dropping by for coffee and a tour in the morning.

A quick perusal of the supply cabinet reveals only one remaining bulb. Martha flips the switch for the backstage lights, giving her just enough illumination for her task. Her 64-year old knees pop in protest as she kneels and gingerly extracts the base of the busted bulb. The new one installed, Martha stands and stretches the muscles in her back.

And freezes.

The recesses of the small auditorium are almost inky black. The only indication that she is not alone is the faint glow of the red exit sign burnishing a halo of silver hair in the back row. The old seat squeaks as he rises.

"It's just me, Marty. Nothing to fear."

Martha covers her eyes with a trembling, well-manicured hand and groans.

"My whole life long, only one person has dared to call me that." Her hand falls away and she lasers a glare though the darkness at her visitor. "Hello, Charlie."

Charles slides out of the back row and walks down front, right up to the edge of the orchestra pit, into the light, into her life again.

"No one calls me Charlie anymore, so we're even." Off her incredulous look – "Well, name-wise, at any rate," he offers sheepishly. "You look amazing, Martha. The years are being very, very kind."

"Perhaps, but you and your sneaking around just shortened my lifespan by at least a year. At my age I can't afford that kind of debit."

"I'll make it up to you," he promises.

"You'll forgive my skepticism, of course."

"For starters, how about we knock off all this secret keeping and cut our son in on the deal?"

There's a lightness, a twinkle to his delivery that irks Martha. "Charles, by any standard, I've had a rather incredible sense of humor about you over the years. It does not extend to jokes about that."

"No joking, Martha." He's more solemn now. "I made contact today."

The room swims around Martha. The acting space behind her is staged as a kitchen scene. Martha drops into a vinyl chair and rests her head on folded arms atop the yellow Formica table. She's silent. Charles walks the long way around, through the side auditorium exit, up the hallway and onto the stage from behind her. When he sits in the chair across the table from her, Martha is wiping under her eyes.

"You made contact." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes, he should know by now."

"By now?" She looks up, confused.

"I...sort of...cornered his wife in Central Park and gave her a letter for Richard."

"Oh, Charles, you didn't. What on earth?"

"I had business to take care of with her."

"What business could you possibly have with Kate Beckett? And she's pregnant! You probably scared the daylights out of her, if the way you just greeted me is any indication."

"She's fine, Martha. It's just...there are things about Winter that she has a right to know. Things that nobody else will ever have the wherewithal to tell her."Charles lays a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. "Kate's got some distance from it now, and it seemed like a good time, for a lot of reasons."

She pushes away from the table and stalks away across the stage. Her back is to Charles, arms crossed, hugging herself in the cool air. "Stephen Winter!" She spits out the dead man's name like it tastes foul in her mouth. "I keep hoping I've heard that name for the last time. What do you know about him that could help her now? It's done, Charles, he's dead. Him and dozens more, dead or in prison. There's no one else to chase, no one left to be a threat. She's moved on and she's happy – Richard and Kate are truly happy."

"Martha, I'm glad for that. But she's always struck me as someone who would want the whole story. The events surrounding Winter's death...just left questions. That kind of thing that eats at a cop. I just wanted Kate to know what really happened."

Martha rounds on him, "And so you just took upon yourself to reopen old wounds...after all this time, all this silence, you couldn't help yourself, so you just sail into town to...to..." She trails off to a whisper, suspicion dawning across her features. "You?" At first a question, and then, "You. It was you."

Her flighty public persona aside, Martha has always been sharp as a tack. He gestures at her abandoned chair. Martha glares, but reclaims her seat.

Charles takes a deep breath. "The agency only found out about Winter at the very end, when the FBI did. When he skipped town, jurisdiction fell to us to do what had to be done. My own team was on the ground in Marrakesh the day Winter died. That's what I had to tell Kate."

Martha nods slowly, taking it all in. Most days she manages to not think about what Richard's father does for a living. This is definitely not one of those days. "Well. That's...remarkable."

"Martha, I haven't ever done anything really meaningful for him. It was obvious, even then, that he loved Kate. Anything I could do for her, it was for him, too. They needed to be clear of her mother's case if they were going to have a solid chance to be happy. For national security reasons, Winter had to go. My whole career long, I've never been less conflicted about taking life than I was that day."

Martha smiles, a small, wry upturn of the lips. "This would make an amazing play."

Charles only shrugs, knowing after more than forty years of silence, that Martha would never breathe a word of this out of turn.

"I suppose, Charles, that in your world, nothing says 'I love you' like a meticulously planned assassination. At least it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."


	6. Chapter 6

Only after dinner and a shower and falling into bed, does Rick take up the envelope again. His wife, drawn up close to him against the headboard, waits quietly as he turns the envelope over in his hands, tracing the straight lines and studying the neat inscription on the face of it. In the warm halo of the bedside lamp, he takes a deep breath and runs a finger under the flap, stripping it open and drawing out the contents. The envelope falls to his lap as the stiff, expensive stationary unfolds silently in his hands. It is covered, nearly a page and a half, in the same, even script as the envelope.

Kate inches closer to his shoulder and reads along as Rick begins.

_Richard,_

_I suppose there's no perfect way to go about this, nothing that will make this introduction anything less than awkward and difficult. Kate seems quite the stalwart, so I think maybe she'll manage being my messenger just fine. I acknowledge that it's probably the work of a coward to drop this letter in the hands of your pregnant wife, but I've spent my whole adult life planning and working scenarios to my advantage, and it's a hard habit to break. And so this is delivered, and so we are introduced, after a fashion. I am your father; you are my son, my only child._

_I was reared in a household long steeped in the traditions of a military family. My father, and three fathers before him all wore the uniform of our nation, and before that, the same can be said of my progenitors in the British Isles. While I am vastly more fond of democracy as a form of government than its author, I was from an early age, and remain to this day convinced of the rightness of Burke's words, that "All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing." The quote was a favorite of my father's, I learned it almost as early as the words to the national anthem and saying grace before dinner. So many years have passed between then and now, and I have too many regrets to number, but be it to my credit or to my fault, my belief in the American ideal is not one of them._

_Your mother was 19, and I was 22, that summer long ago when we first met. I cannot describe here, without feeling more than a little self-serving, all the doubts I was carrying with me in the weeks leading up to my enlistment. Every news article I read, and everyone I talked to who was already involved in the war effort lead me to believe that I was going to die young and undistinguished on a clandestine field of battle so remote that almost the moment the wheels of my plane lifted off from U.S. soil, I would cease to be. Which, oddly, I did, but not for the reason I suspected. _

_In the course of the war, I freely admit to distinguishing myself through a series of mishaps, errors, lucky guesses, gambles, outright blessings, sheer ignorance in knowing when to cut my losses and quit, and a generous helping of pure dumb luck. I survived the Vietnam conflict and even prospered, as much as one in my position could. Ultimately, I hesitate to attribute my survival there to anything other than divine intervention. It was chaos. No one that young is ever telling the truth if they say they always knew what they were doing, were always convinced they were right, and never failed to doubt the outcome. As it was, the outcome in most quarters failed to live up to what I wanted. Except for the part about still breathing when an engagement was over. It's almost all still classified, so I'll take it all to my grave. My successes, if they can be called that, were the nails in the coffin of a normal life back in the states. _

_Like you, I am an only child. Until the day they died, my parents always believed that I was a career Army man. I have a current uniform and a military I.D., but that is just a cover for other things. There is little I can write here in relating the facts of my subsequent years. To provide confirmation, suffice it to say this: I took the liberty of drinking a couple of cold ones and whizzing on her unmarked grave for you. She was evil, and a fantastic liar, but she told you the truth about at least one thing. Forgive M., he is a friend, and said what he believed was right._

_To my great shame, you were almost school aged before, through the agency of one near to my family, I knew you even existed. I will never be able to make up to your mother the debt I owe to her for raising you to be the fine man you are. Martha was sweet and lovely, and while I could have made a more mature decision then, I cannot help but see the good man you are and be proud. _

_I cannot accurately relate the agony of finding out that I was a father, and had missed almost four years of your life. I came home as soon as my duties allowed, and while I was too ashamed and afraid then to contact her, I spent a whole afternoon in Central Park one Saturday, watching you picnic and read books and play on the playground with your beautiful mother. Even then, from a distance, I could see how close you two were; how she doted on you, and how you adored her. My work demanded secrecy, both for its success and your safety. I convinced myself, foolishly, that you didn't need me, and returned to my duties with heavy heart. I did contact her several times over the years, and offered meager assistance. Still, with my dying breath, my greatest earthly regrets will be these two: that I had to compel your mother to remain silent about my identity, and that while I was your father, I was never your dad._

_I could write more, but by now I'm probably trying your patience. If this is the only contact you ever desire from me, I cannot blame you. I hope, at least, that I have answered some of your questions. I have certainly done nothing to deserve any more of your time. Still, my life is different now, and while I know it's a foolish desire, I hope one day we will meet on good terms._

_Your father,_

_Charles Trent _


	7. Chapter 7

AN: After the airing of 5x01, clearly we're AU now, and our bad guy and the events related to the Johanna Beckett mythology depart here from canon. I can live with it if you can.

I appreciate all of your who are favoriting, following and reviewing. You make this so fun, thanks!

Thanks also to my good friend, Pen, who is looking this over so I sound a little less dumb than I ordinarily would left to my own devices.

lb

* * *

What woke her, she doesn't know. Rick is quiet, and very still. Only because she knows him so well, has spent a thousand nights lying next to him in this bed, does Kate know her husband is awake. And struggling. At the apex of his inhale, there is a flutter, the barest tremble in his breath.

Castle is a messy sleeper. He twitches, takes up lots of space. Occasionally drools. He's always touching her, somewhere, with a hand or a foot, if not an all-out snuggle. Most nights are soundtracked by his low, gentle snore. It drove Kate crazy at first. She never mentioned it to him, but as a habitually light sleeper herself, in the beginning Castle was an awful distraction as a bed partner. It's better now, though, mostly because she's better. She sleeps like she never could in all the years since her mother died. The rattle and hum of Castle that used to keep her staring at the ceiling is welcome now, like her own, personal white noise machine.

But tonight, Castle is noiseless, rigid, folded in on himself across the bed. Not himself. Not right. He's never been the emotionally stunted one in this partnership, although if there ever was a reason to be that way, this is probably it. Still, his wife isn't about to let him start bad habits now.

Kate makes a show of waking up, stretching out and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Babe?" His voice holds no traces of sleep.

"Gotta pee." _Happens to be true._

The bathroom door snicks closed, and Castle rolls away from the light peeking out under the door. A couple of minutes later, she's back. And hovering on his side of the bed. Behind his back, he feels her knees bump the mattress. "Scoot," she orders.

The doctor told her last week that she's far enough along she needs to make a point to sleep on her left side as much as possible. Which she's been doing. On her side of the bed, until now. Rick obeys, and Kate slides in behind him, as close as the growing baby will allow, an arm under his pillow and a knee bumping the back of his own.

"Little spoon's not supposed to be in the back," he grouses.

"Says who?" She snakes her free hand under his arm to splay out on his chest. He plucks it up to kiss her palm.

"I don't know, spoon people. People who know things about spoons. It's a known thing."

"Utensil illiterate morons."

He snorts out a laugh, and she smiles. Better.

If she was Castle, she wouldn't want to talk yet. So she doesn't make him. She just snuggles in tighter and plants an open-mouthed kiss on the first skin she finds above the collar of his t-shirt. Pulling back with a soft pop, she rubs her forehead on the space between his shoulder blades, makes a pillow adjustment, and settles in for the rest of the night.

"Thanks," he rasps out.

She hums into his shirt, her only reply.


	8. Chapter 8

When they finally arrive at home the next evening, late and worn out form an unproductive day in front of a too-bare murder board, Martha is there. Castle's mother sits in a chair to the side of the sofa, glass in hand, a half-full bottle of Merlot on the coffee table. As Kate hangs their coats and Castle sorts through the day's mail, it occurs to Kate that she's never seen Martha so subdued. Absent is her typical colorful flare; she's adorned instead in a subtle navy blue sweater set and gray slacks. Classy for sure, but as if she dressed with the maxim in mind that this evening isn't about her. Although, in a way, it's all about Martha and her past.

Richard's address to Martha is as warm and affectionate as ever, even if he's a little weary around the eyes. He stoops to kiss his mother on the cheek.

"Had dinner yet?"

"No, not yet," Martha admits, attempting a smile, but only managing to press her lips into a grim little line. Everything about Martha's appearance tonight telegraphs the fact that Kate wasn't the only one this week with an unexpected visitor.

Rick sighs, a tired sound, and Martha's heart breaks for her son.

"Mother, I know we need to talk, but I'm going to feed Kate first."

"Please, I'm fine, do what you need to."

Richard squeezes her shoulder and Martha sags into the cushions and takes a drink of her wine.

"It's okay, Mother. I just need to hear you tell me what you know. I need something to compare his story to, so I can sort it out in my head."

"Everything, I promise."

He nods and heads into the kitchen, where Kate is already putting a pot of water on to boil. Castle grabs a container of homemade bolognese out of the freezer and throws it into the microwave. Castle pours iced tea and Kate throws together a simple spinach salad, and soon they are all seated around the dinner table.

Dinner is a quick, quiet affair, and the dishes are soon dispatched. As Martha is putting the last of the silverware into the dishwasher, Kate excuses herself to get comfortable.

Her husband follows into the office, shucks his jacket and shoes, and pours himself two fingers of scotch. He's leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, swirling it around in the glass, when Kate emerges from the bathroom. In a pair of his Christmas pajamas.

Kate can't quite classify her husband's expression. He draws a breath to speak, but she cuts him off with a pointy, accusing finger and an unconvincing little glare. "Before you speak, I'll remind you that they're _your_ pajamas, _you _knocked me up, none of my regular bedroom attire fits now, and I carry a gun."

"I only wished to say that until this moment, I'd never considered the Grinch sexy. It's a little disturbing, but I kinda like it."

"Weirdo."

"Only for you."

Kate smiles at that. The letter is on the bedside table, and she picks it up, and taps it against her leg. "Let's get this over with?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." Castle reaches for his wife and they head for the living room and Martha and answers he never thought he'd get.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: This chapter is for Ducky, who loves her some Martha and is working overtime to keep me encouraged.

* * *

When her son and daughter-in-law are settled on the couch, Martha sets her wine glass down and blows a heavy breath out through her nose.

"I was closing up shop last night when he paid me a visit."

"The man who found Kate in the park, it's really him?"

Martha nods, the burden of over forty years of concealment showing in every line and shadow on her face. "Oh, Richard. Every time I see you, I see him."

Richard blanches at that, and Martha's already pained expression tightens up even more.

"No, son. Don't assume it's a bad thing. I actually have very fond memories of Charlie." Martha, in an uncharacteristic moment of discomposure, scrubs a hand through her hair. "We were very young, and it was so long ago. He had just graduated from West Point and he had six weeks to go before his enlistment came due. Charlie's cousin's girlfriend, Beth, was doing summer stock in a little theater up in Watertown. I was was dying for stage exposure and I scoured New York state for opportunities. I took an understudy part to spend time in a real theater. Charlie had the free time on his hands and ended up volunteering to paint scenery for the theater company one weekend when he was visiting his cousin. That's where we met.

"Most of my friends in the theater were...free spirits. Serious actors, hippies, beatniks. Charlie was so clean cut, so earnest, and completely unlike anybody I was used to. His father was in the service and they lived abroad off and on when he was a child. When he was accepted to West Point, they discovered that he had an aptitude for languages. He was vague about it, initially, but he gave me to understand that he was groomed throughout the academy for some kind of special service overseas.

"Kate, you may not know some of this. My parents claimed they were performers, vaudeville and carnivals and the like, and I suppose that was partly accurate, but my father was mostly just a con man, a small-time hustler. He despised the government. Today I think the term would be "off the grid." He managed to live his entire life under the radar of the IRS and managed to never pay taxes, never had a drivers license or a Social Security card. I lived with them off and on after high school out of sheer necessity, but it was a bad situation. There was no way I could come home and tell my father I was having the baby of a squared away Army type. My father would have seen it as a personal betrayal. He was a hard man, he drank heavily and was not above striking a blow to make his point. In his less sober moments, my mother and I were just weighing him down, keeping him from living the freewheeling life he wanted, and he never let us forget it. In the end, I told my parents that I'd met an older actor who lied to me and turned out to be married. If my father knew who Charles really was, I would have been on the street. As it was, my father had little to do with me once he found out about the baby.

"My mother already had late-stage emphysema, and she died in a convalescent hospital six months after Richard was born. My father left her body there, went home, packed a bag, and disappeared. I stayed in their apartment through the end of the month, and I was on my own, with an infant and no family to speak of.

"We slept on cots in the Catholic mission for three weeks when a theater girlfriend's parents let us move into their basement in Utica. My friend, Beverly, was starting college and her parents both worked, so I kept house and cooked for them for almost two years. Her father traveled a lot and mostly it was just us girls at home, and Richard, of course. It was nice, actually. I was so grateful. Richard was thriving, and Beverly's grandmother lived there and took an instant shine to him. She loved looking after him, and it gave me the chance to reconnect with the theater and I took a few small, local roles.

"The Vietnam war was in high swing. I thought about Charlie a lot, mostly hoping he was safe. I never did kid myself into thinking that it was a great love story. We were just stupid kids. I was trying to escape a bad home situation in the theater, and he had no idea what the future held, beyond a direct flight to a war on the other side of the world. He probably told me more that he should have about his work. He'd learned Vietnamese in the academy and was headed to a unit that was trying to cause havoc in enemy territory, supply lines, communication, things like that.

"I was convinced he had no idea about the baby. And I imagined if he somehow did, that it would be a stretch to think someone from his background would want to attach himself to a broke, grifter's daughter just because she'd carried his child.

"Eventually one of my little acting roles got me noticed, and things started to pick up on the stage. I moved to the city and waited tables some and I got into my own little apartment and I managed to get Richard a scholarship to a little Episcopal pre-school. If I had a show at night, I'd hire a baby sitter. Money was tight, and I didn't get much sleep, but Richard was such a sweet, easy child, and I was landing roles. I started to believe it was going to work out for us.

"And then it happened that one night, after show, I was out late with friends and who should I see at a diner, but Beth. We didn't talk long, but I found out she had married and divorced Charlie's cousin. She wanted to visit for a while, and we chatted, but one of the girls from my theater group and I were splitting a babysitter that night, and she reminded me that it was time to go. Beth heard her, asked about my child. On an impulse, I showed her a photograph of Richard, by then, nearly four years old. She held the picture in her hands and studied it for the longest time. She was so intent on it, and when she looked back up at me...I just _knew_ that she knew. I had no idea how to find Charlie, I didn't even know his last name then, and I'd resigned myself to the idea that he was out of the picture for good. It's not like in 1974 you could just Google someone. Especially someone who was attached to a phantom Army/CIA unit inserted behind enemy lines in North Vietnam.

"Beth asked very quietly if she could keep the picture. I almost couldn't hear her over the pounding in my ears. I told her she could, and before I lost my nerve and snatched it back, I ran out the door with my cast mate in tow.

"Two months dragged by, and I began to believe that Charlie was dead, or unreachable, or knew and didn't care. So I just slogged on and kissed my son goodnight every night and waited tables and pretended I was someone else on the stage. And one afternoon, I picked you up from school, Richard and when we got home, there was an envelope peeking out from under the door mat. There was a single sheet of paper in it, and a key."

For the first time since her storytelling began, Martha moved. She reached into her handbag beside the chair, and drew out a sheet of paper, passing it to her son.

"Do you remember that Mercury Carpri we had?" Martha asked. "It was the most appalling color, metallic burnt orange. A four speed, it was new and ran like a top."

Castle, until now completely absorbed in the story, cleared his throat and answered. "I remember you tried to teach me about shifting gears, but I didn't understand that you had to push in the clutch first. We stalled on Columbus Avenue and were almost rear-ended by a cab."

"Exactly! I can't believe you remember that, you were so very young. But that car? The envelope under my front door mat contained the note you're holding, the title, and the key to that brand new Mercury."


	10. Chapter 10

Kate, so far completely absorbed in Martha's story, finally turns for the first, good look at her husband. Castle's face is unreadable, a feat for him. The paper, yellowed with age, crinkles as he gingerly pulls it open with trembling hands. Kate is turned into him, with an arm across the back of the sofa, her hand toying with the hair at his neckline. She slides her free hand over to support his, cradling the letter with him. Kate can't help a brief glance at Martha. The look of gratitude on Martha's face all but takes her daughter-in-law's breath away. Like Martha, Kate starts to tear up, and she has to purposefully redirect her attention to the short letter.

_Marty,_

_I didn't know, honestly had no idea. I've already missed so much. I cannot apologize enough to make up for what you have carried alone. Four years? If our lives were only different._

_The car is paid in full. I know it's not nearly enough. _

_From what I can tell, you're a wonderful mother, and he's an equally wonderful boy. I watched you both in the park last Saturday. I'm sad beyond words; proud beyond measure. _

_I'll keep up, keep tabs, keep praying the best for you both. I'm in so deep now, it will be safer this way. Forgive me, please._

_C._

Kate reads it over her husband's shoulder, and reads it again, tears streaming. Rick is very still – even the shaking in his hands has stopped. A shred of panic laces up in her, but then-

"Is...is there more? I mean, he says he contacted you. Did you hear from my father after this?"

"Yes, Richard. Somehow, he always knew where we were, and what we were doing. Oddly, it was never...unnerving. It's just...it was a little like having a guardian angel. We'd have a tight month, and I'd find an envelope with cash in the mail. When the car broke down once and I got a call from a shop in town telling me they were coming to pick it up. He paid a lot of your private school tuition. He bought the little Toyota you drove to college. I did Shakespeare in the park in '87 and during the curtain call, I looked up and he was in the fifth row. I stopped for coffee one day in March of 1989 at a little diner in Brooklyn, and I looked up from the sugar shaker to find him sliding into the seat across from me. The afternoon you and Kate were married, I took a walk down the beach after the reception and Charles was just sitting there in the sand, at that little public beach down the road from the house.

"He was nowhere and everywhere all at once. I don't think I had direct contact with him more than a dozen times over the years, but when he finally made an appearance, he knew every grade you made in school, what girl you were dating and when you got your heart broken. It was surreal, like I'd mothered a child with James Bond. I received the most obscure post cards, usually with nothing written on them. After a while I realized after a while they were all tied to some world event. Grenada. Manuel Noriega's capture. When the Berlin wall fell. When Saddam Hussein's sons were killed in Iraq. Your father was somehow tied into all these things, and it was like he wanted me to know that if he was missing from our lives, at least it was for something important."

Martha runs out of steam and speaks her next words with her elbows on her knees, face buried in her hands. "Charles did not think it safe to have regular contact with us, and I was in no position to argue. I know how much you've wondered, how much you've missed. I always... h-hoped..."

Her voice fails her, and she chokes on a sound Richard has never heard from his mother, a sob of honest, unchecked anguish. Castle is on his knees in an instant, wrapping Martha's huddled form in an embrace.

"It's okay, Mother, it's okay...I get it, shhh, no..."

Martha clings to Richard's neck as he soothes his hands over her back. Kate has never seen Martha so out of sorts, and doubts Castle has, either.

They stay that way a long time, Martha bent forward in the chair, her son wrapped around her waist, his forehead falling to rest on her knee. They're both crying, as is Kate, who doesn't dare interrupt this moment between mother and son.

At length, they both settle and Martha pulls back to regard him, wiping tears away as she goes.

"Richard, I always hoped there would come a time when we could tell you everything, when you'd get some closure about your father, but I never imagined it would take this long. I have second-guessed this a thousand times, but Charles was so sure this was the wisest choice. I have ached for you, Richard, knowing what this has cost you, the not knowing, the not having him in your life. I'm so sorry, heaven help me in my duplicity, Richard, I'm so sorry."

Richard is shaking his head. "No, it's not a lie. Mother, it was never a lie. You withheld what you had to, but you never lied to me. I don't hold this against you, I never have. You have to believe that, please."

Martha looks unconvinced, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks. A lifetime of doubts aren't exactly just falling away. She's so accustomed to feeling bad about this, and all the while pretending like nothing's the matter. Castle rises to his knees, placing gentle hands on Martha's face, thumbing the tears away. "Mother, I had everything I needed. Do you hear me? Everything. It was enough. You were always enough for me."

Martha's eyes close, the last few tears squeezing away. A deep, trembling breath passes out of her. When she finally looks her son in the eyes again, really looks, all she sees is his certainty and his love. She cards an affectionate hand through Richard's hair, pushing it back where it flops over his forehead.

"My dear boy, I'm so proud of you. So grateful for the good man you are." She pauses, a little smile finally breaking across her face, more like the Martha they know. She regards him with a little shake of her head. "Thank you for being so good to you crazy old mom."

Richard pushes himself up by the arms of the chair and pulls Martha after him. He's chuckling as he draws her in for an embrace. "No, Mother, not crazy. Eccentric, maybe. Colorful, for sure."

"So true! What is life, after all, without a little color? Speaking of color," she says and pulls away to pluck her glass from the table, "My favorite is red. Who else wants a drink?"


	11. Chapter 11

AN: We've reached the area of "paranoid tweaking" I mentioned in the original author's note, so updates are going to slow down a little while I get the later chapters in better shape. Thanks for your patience and continued support.

* * *

Later, Martha kills her bottle of Petrus Permorol, and excuses herself and turns in for the night. Which means exiting by the front door and tuning left, and walking about fifty feet and inserting her key into to the front door of the studio apartment next door, the only other unit on their side of the building on this floor. The day after Kate said yes, Richard had contacted the listing agent and offered fifty thousand over asking price, in cash. Martha has lived next door ever since; close enough to drop by for dinner several nights a week, but separated enough to give Martha her privacy and Richard and Kate theirs.

Castle has finished up in the bathroom and is taking off his watch and clothes when Kate lays her book aside to focus on him. Even in the faint glow of the bedside lamp, there's a liberal sprinkling of silver visible in his hair, particularly his sideburns, that wasn't there when they first met. The low light favors him, tracing a loving hand over his brow, the square jaw, the crows feet at the corner of his eyes. He carries a few more pounds than when they met, but he wears it so well on his broad, brawny frame. Castle wads up his shirt and pitches it into the hamper, and Kate smiles to herself, watching the light play over the muscles of his back. Her husband may be getting older, but she likes it on him.

Kate is still sitting propped up on pillows when Castle lifts the covers and slides down into the bed. He cozies up to his wife's side, laying an arm loosely across her legs, and says nothing. Which is so fantastically out of character for him, that after about five minutes of yawning silence, Kate can't it take anymore.

"Castle, you know it doesn't change anything, right?"

"What?"he asks, with a little shake of his head.

He sounds sleepy. It hadn't occurred to her that he was nodding off. But he's pushing back to get a better look at her, so she leans closer threading her fingers through his hair and tries to explain.

"Knowing. Who he is, it doesn't change anything. Maybe you fill in the blanks in your story, but whether he ends up in our life or not, you'll still be the same good, loving man tomorrow that you were before he handed me that envelope. You'll still be a fantastic father, a doting son, a devoted husband. Who Charles is has no effect on that. You're the mirror image of him for sure, but your creativity and passion are your own. Your kindness and your humor are your own. Your gift with words, you cultivated that. You didn't need his help to become who you are."

"I...thanks. But I actually, I'm not so much thinking about him, at least not in that context".

The hand she's been carding through his hair stills at the back of his neck. "What then?"

"I have to tell Alexis."

Kate is perplexed. "She'll be fine. I'm less worried about Alexis than anyone else in the mix, including your father."

She can't quite identify the odd look he's giving her.

"Seriously, Rick, I know this is fantastically weird, but I've met him. He may be an even better actor than Martha after all these years of espionage, but before he revealed who he was, I really believed he was just a guy hurting over the absence of his family. I could be completely wrong, of course. But I'm just saying, I've sat across the table from hundreds, maybe thousands of liars. And I believe that he misses his family. As long as we can all keep from setting our expectations too high..."

He looks thoughtful, the slightest indication of a smile working at the corners of his mouth.

"Alexis asked me once, about my father, if I missed him. I told her no, that it was kind of intriguing to imagine that my father could be anything, like an astronaut, or the inventor of canned whipped cream." Kate smirks at that, but doesn't want to interrupt. "I know it's silly, "Castle elaborates, "but in a way, I was right. I mean, what made missing out on him kind of tolerable was that I could make up these crazy, romantic stories about who my father might be. That's what I told Alexis. And now, I'm not bragging because it's so utterly ridiculous, but I was basically right. Or accurate, maybe. In the way that someone who makes a blind free-throw at halftime is accurate, you know? It's...I..." Castle runs out of words, grimaces, disappointed he can't quite wrap words around what he's thinking.

"Castle, I may need to revise my earlier statement."

"How so?"

"If you can credit Charles Trent with anything, I think you're the product of the imagination it takes to live your whole life at the center of your own mystery."

By the way Rick is smiling as she talks, Kate thinks she's nailed it. "And like any other mystery you've ever dreamed up or been confronted with in real life, you want to find out what he's really like, ask a million questions. Above any hurt you naturally feel, your curiosity always wins out, Castle. It's who you are."

"Isn't that a little pathetic?"

Beckett is half way to a laugh before she realizes her husband's expression is now completely serious.

"You're kidding, right? Castle, how did I handle my mother's case? Even when I tried to walk away, it's not a move I was ever content with. I just did what I had to, to keep my sanity. We're both wired that way – with that burning need to know. Your father has made an overture. If I was in your shoes, I'd want to know everything."

Castle blows out a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding, and falls back into his pillow. It's easily one of the best things about being with Kate. It took them a while to get to this point, but she knows him so well, and knows exactly what to say. He's so, ridiculously grateful.

Kate drops her book onto the bedside table and turns out the lamp, plunging the room into semi-darkness. She wiggles back into him in a mirror image of the night before, a deep, happy sigh escaping her as her husband molds his solid, warm frame to her back.

"Hey, Beckett?"

"Yeah?"

"Grinch pajamas?"

Kate's laughter tells him all he needs to know.


	12. Chapter 12

At this hour, New York-Presbyterian is far quieter than the daytime hours, but still, there are enough visitors and staff passing through the atrium to make for interesting people watching. Castle nurses a cup of Starbucks from the cafeteria kiosk and observes the visitors and staff come and go in the wee hours of the morning. Across the way, a young couple whispers, huddled together on a bench, silent tears streaming down the young woman's face. Just outside the double sliding glass doors, a man Castle's age is chain smoking and arguing on his phone. An elderly woman is perched on a bench by the elevators, working the New York Times crossword, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

If he was more alert, Castle would be writing their stories in his head; imagining characters and crafting plots. As it is, he barely feels the coffee. It's been a long, strange day, and if he could, he would be sleeping. Kate's labor went on for a little over 21 hours, and in the end she bled a more than anybody was happy with. But she's good now, asleep in the awful hospital bed. Alexis is snoring on the sofa under the window in the hospital room, and a strapping nine-pound boy is sunning under the UV lamp in the nursery down the hall. Slight jaundice, nothing to fear as long as they deal with it now. Alexis had the same problem when she was born so the second-time dad isn't worried.

As Castle drifts with his thoughts, he feels himself sway with them in the hard, vinyl chair. Punchy. It's the only word he can come up with. Everybody in their little clan, at the moment, is just a little under rested and overdone. Martha, who waited out most of the hospital drama at home, had the good sense to show up an hour after Ethan was born with a pepperoni pizza. She stayed long enough to eat just one piece, kiss everyone, fawn over the baby, and go right back home.

Kate's video chat with Lanie was brief, and her best friend took one look at her and promised she'd be by in the morning – way, _way_ late in the morning.

Just before Kate asked for lights out, she sat in the bed with baby Ethan in her lap and Castle and Alexis each at a hip; three goofy, grinning idiots who hadn't slept at all the night before, because counter to the expectation planted by the nurse running the birthing class, one's water can indeed break at the onset of labor. Just ask the Flokati area rug on Kate's side of the bed (dumpster) and her favorite slippers (likewise).

Now, the night duty nurse comes in every couple of hours to check Kate, and while the exhausted new mother didn't even wake the last time, Castle hasn't slept a wink in the squeaky vinyl reclining chair. And so now he's depositing a half a cup of cold coffee in the trash and about to start wandering the halls again. There's so much bouncing around in his head; he wants to be still, but can't manage it. He wants to rest. He wants to lay his head down and dream of his wife and his daughter and his new-born son. Sheer exhaustion will hit him eventually, but for now, he walks.

Just down the hall, the door of the main hospital chapel stands open, banked on both sides by lovely stained-glass panels. They glow faintly with the lights within, thanks to gentle up-lighting, with a few candles burning brightly down front. Castle shuffles up and leans in against the door frame. The room is all warm wood and soft benches and the air smells faintly of sandalwood and lemon furniture polish, and it's completely inviting and peaceful. Best of all, it's empty, and he slips into a seat, melting into the worn, burgundy upholstery.

Nothing about this room is like a hospital room. There's no sterile white anything here, no antiseptic smell, or wires and tubes. Maybe that's it, the root of this jittery restlessness. He's had his fill of seeing Kate in a hospital gown, all he cares of the sight of her blood, even for the best of reasons. With his first lungful of air, Ethan wailed, announcing himself to everyone in the room. The day-long blanket of tension fell away from Kate in that moment, as she collapsed back on the bed with a breath of laughter on her lips and tears streaking from the corners of he eyes. She couldn't see how much blood there was, and the doctor didn't want to alarm her, but Castle saw it, keeps seeing it, even now.

The doctor was hovering and the nurses were doing what was necessary to slow the bleeding. They gave her a shot in her IV for the pain and another to encourage her uterus to clamp down. Castle crowded low at the head of the bed and stroked his wife's sweaty hair and told her about their beautiful boy and how he's so proud, and she smiled through her tears and believed him when he told her how wonderful their first Christmas as home was going to be.

Castle missed his son's first ten minutes, barely noticed as the nurses fastened the tiny hospital bracelet around his ankle, ran his Apgar score twice, bathed him, and dressed him in a little onesie Kate had packed in her bag. They will go home soon and when that happens, surely the knot in his chest will loosen.

Kate is fine. She's fine.

He's said it to himself roughly every few seconds since the placenta was delivered and the bleeding slowed to a trickle and stopped.

Kate had told one of the nurses they could let Alexis in. Only when Alexis froze in the doorway at the sight of the linens that were being cleared away, did it finally dawn on his wife that Castle's shaking hands weren't just the excitement of a second time father. The look Kate shot him, full of understanding, threatened the wreck the grip he had on his composure. It would be a while before he could tell her about it.

"It's all right, pumpkin," he'd assured his daughter with more certainty than he actually felt. "It was a little...interesting there at the end, but everybody is okay now."

Alexis' eyes grew glassy with tears. She had slipped right past her father and fell on Kate's neck and told her in a shaky voice how glad she was that Kate was okay. Not for the first time, Castle was so grateful for what the relationship between Alexis and his wife had become. Sure, Kate would never be the young woman's mother. But what Kate and Alexis had was vastly better than what Alexis knew from her own mother-daughter relationship. It did not go unappreciated. By any of them.

He knows it goes a long way toward explaining why Alexis is scrunched up on the sofa in Kate's hospital room instead of her comfortable bed in her college apartment across town, and why Kate wouldn't have it any other way.

Castle's phone beeps in his pocket, a weak protest from the nearly-dead battery. He fishes it out of his pocket and pages through the new pictures. Kate in the hospital bed, still pregnant and looking annoyed. Alexis sitting on the foot of the bed distracting Kate with ramblings about graduate school. Much later, Kate, the relieved smile of new motherhood gracing her features. Martha nose to nose with her grandson while Kate looks on. Ethan snoozing in the bassinet, a little fist under his chin. The nurse took one right before Kate went to sleep - three adults huddled together on the bed, looking adoringly on the sweet, sleeping face of a newborn son, a baby brother. Again, so much to be grateful for.

For the first time since Castle entered the chapel, he can hear footsteps out in the hall. Maybe he's not the only one who needs a little perspective at 3:45 in the morning. Whoever it is, they stop just outside the door. Over his shoulder, the wavy outline of his visitor lingers on the other side of the stained glass. A man. Who is apparently of two minds about whether to enter. The man starts forward, but rocks back on his heel, never clearing the door frame. After about ten seconds observing the newcomer, Castle thinks it might be better to mind his own business and not be staring when and if the man enters.


	13. Chapter 13

The new visitor to the chapel slips into the bench across the narrow aisle from Rick. Not wanting to interrupt the other man's contemplation, Rick only half looks up from his phone, catches a quick glimpse of gray hair, and murmurs a polite "good morning."

The man replies in kind, and for a couple of minutes it's quiet in the chapel.

Paging back through the photos as the phone gives its final gasps, he settles on the one of Ethan, bundled and sleeping in the bassinet. Nine pounds, a big boy. Castle can see his burly build all over his new son, and he can't help the smile. Still, the shape of his face is undeniably Kate, and simple genetics suggest that the boy will likely have Kate's hazel eyes. Castle wants that, wants the boy to be as much of his extraordinary mother as possible. He can't wait to watch Kate as a mom. She's been so loving toward Alexis; the ferocity she shows in caring for the ones she cares about has always taken his breath away. Rick wouldn't have had another child with anyone but Kate; and at the same time couldn't imagine not having this child with her. He wanted this for her, to have her know what it was to love another human being unconditionally from the very start. The screen fades to time out, and Castle taps it one more time to bring the picture back. If the battery's going to quit, it can quit on this image.

"I can't help but notice, you're pretty fixed on that photo. Would you tell me about it?"

Castle startles, for a moment, having forgotten in the silence that the other man was there. He smiles broadly, glad to share his good news, and holds the phone out across the aisle to show this older man his prized photo.

Making eye contact for the first time, Castle freezes, the phone dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers into the other man's outstretched hand.

Three photos. Kate had managed to shoot three of them on her phone that day in the park, all of his retreating figure, and from a considerable distance. Photos of this man.

Castle's father sits across the aisle, maybe five feet away, studying the photo of his newborn grandson, an undeniable grin forming on at his mouth and crinkling at the corners of his eyes. No wonder Kate was so sure. With Castle in a gray wig, they could pass for brothers.

"I...uhh..." Castle had imagined it, dreamed it, rehearsed it. In his head, he was ready for this, with something appropriately weighty for the moment, or even light and funny to ease the tension. Twenty-nine best sellers, indeed. Something Martha said a few years ago comes to mind now, about making his living with words but having a hard time finding the right ones when it counts. Rick blows out a long, frustrated sigh and sinks further into his seat, casting a forlorn look at his father, who is still smiling at the image on the screen. "Words are kind of my thing, but right now, I've got nothing."

Charles lets the screen go dark this time, and shifts in his seat to face his son. "When's the last time you really slept?"

The older man's eyes are kinder than Castle imagined. And since he can't think of anything else to say at the moment, Rick simply answers him. "Kate's back and hips have been hurting a lot, she couldn't seem to stay comfortable in one position too long. Not much sleep at all the last couple of weeks, and none at all since night before last."

"Well, that's where your words went."

Castle nods, no argument to be made there.

"Richard, I will leave right now if it's what you want. I'm not here to make you uncomfortable or cause trouble."

Rick looks down, fiddling with the plastic hospital bracelet around his left wrist, and smiles a little to himself. "You know, Kate kind of liked you."

"I knew a lot about your wife before I met her. I expected to be impressed, and I was by no means disappointed. She's smart, and even more beautiful than I anticipated. The best part was how fiercely protective she was of you. That woman loves you, and I'm glad to know for myself just how much." Charles smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "As much as I'm glad to hear she found me tolerable, I was thinking more about you. About what you want."

Rick nods, considers it. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," his father replies.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but why now?"

Charles turns Rick's phone over in his hands a couple of times, and unlocks the screen saver to see Ethan's picture again. "Because I've missed absolutely everything, every landmark, every first, for over 40 years. And I know it's selfish...it's absurdly presumptuous, of me, but I just didn't want to miss another one."

With that, Charles holds the phone back across the aisle. His son stands, takes it and slips it into his front pocket. This could be it. Rick could walk out right now, and chances are this would be the end of it. By the look on Charles' face, his father is afraid that's exactly what's about to happen.

Castle drags a hand through his hair, taking a long look through the exit, before turning back to Charles.

"Would you like to meet him?"


	14. Chapter 14

AN: Guppy asked - maybe two or thee more chapters? My quandary is that I've had an idea that didn't make the first draft at all, and I'm warring with myself, not sure if it's a rabbit I want to chase. Hmmm...

As ever, thanks to all of you who are reading, following and reviewing, you're the best. Special shout out again to Ducky, who has been cheerleading tonight. I am so grateful!

* * *

There's nowhere to sit. This is a hospital, for crying out loud, people visit all the time, loads of them. And the hallway is void of furniture in both directions. Castle looks back through the wide, plate glass window into the nursery. There are three rockers in there, but Charles doesn't have a wrist band so the nurses won't let him in. And Castle's pretty sure there will be a riot of he tries to drag chairs out into the hall.

Charles smiles slightly at his son's sleep-deprived reasoning skills. "If you can count on one thing, the floors in a hospital are usually pretty clean." With that, the older man slides down with a small grimace, settles with his back against the wall under the nursery window.

Castle, a little shocked but unable to come up with anything better, cradles the baby against his chest with one hand, and uses the other to guide himself awkwardly to the floor. The knee that Maddox tweaked sings a little song of protest at the odd angle of his landing, and he growls as he forces it to full extension. Castle settles Ethan in his lap, turned so the boy's grandfather can see his sleeping face.

"That the knee that got injured in the stairwell?"

Rick studies his father for a moment, pondering not for the first time that Charles probably knows the events of that day, and the whole case, almost as well as he does. "Yeah, partially torn MCL and a couple of bone chips. I had it tuned up a couple weeks after it happened, and did rehab, but it's never been a hundred percent right. The doctor wants to scope it again, but I've been putting it off until after the baby. It swelled up like a basketball last time."

Charles nods in sympathy but says noting, so his son prods him along. "Kate said you have a bad knee, too?"

"Just wear and tear, the cartilage is shot. My doctor's been bugging me to do something about it."

Castle pulls back the blanket so Charles can get his first good look at the burly little fellow within, smoothing back a shock of unruly light brown hair with the palm of his hand. "Ethan James," Rick offers.

"Middle after Kate's father?"

"Yes."

"Ethan James Castle. I like it."

Rick can't help but feel pleased as he tucks the blanket back around his sleeping son. It's quiet between them for a few minutes, the both of them waiting for the next topic to present itself. There's no rhythm to it, no familiarity. No reason there should be, after all.

After a while, Charles lifts a careful hand and grasps the little foot poking out the bottom of the blanket, running his thumb up the tiny instep, and smiling as Ethan's toes curl reflexively. "He's built like you," Charles observes, and chuckles as the little boy grunts at the tickling touch and pulls the foot back so it almost disappears into the folds of the blanket.

Castle takes a long, sideways look at his father before replying. " He sure didn't get it from Mother's side of the family, or Beckett's. They're all built like marathon runners. If he's built like me, he's built like you, too."

The older man draws a deep breath and closing his eyes, rests his head against the wall. "It doesn't escape me that you're being a great deal more generous tonight than I deserve. Thank you."

"Don't be too happy," Castle qualifies. "There are things I need to say. Tonight just doesn't seem like the time."

Charles nods. "When you're ready."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Rick squirms against the unforgiving floor and wonders if Charles is as uncomfortable as he is. Or as tired. Maybe his spy father has just cultivated four decades worth of ninja-level patience that allows him to endure things like stilted conversations and cold tile floors. "How long are you going to keep working?" Rick finally works out of his mouth.

Charles claps his hands together, albeit lightly, in deference to the sleeping baby, and says with noticeable relish, "Turned in my paperwork last week. Ninety days to go."

It's been killing him for three months, since the letter, wondering what this will all mean. The disappointment of the ten-year old boy who didn't have a dad on career day creeps up and on him without warning, and Rick is forced to clear his throat before asking. "Uh, so...does that mean you're going to be around?"

At least his voice isn't shaking. Or if it is, Charles has the courtesy to act like he doesn't _**notice.**_ His reply is quick, and tells more than Rick expected.

"I have a couple of good buddies who live out in Jersey. Fellow travelers, if you will. Guys my age who I don't have to lie to, because they've been where I've been. I have a little sailboat_,_ so I'm trying to find a house out there that has easy access to a marina. We all like to sail and fish, so I'll be spending some time with them. But I'll be an easy drive from the city."

Wow. It's not profound, but it's all Rick can think. _Just...wow._ After 44 years. "Ninety days, huh?"

"Yeah. I've been done with field work for a few months. You may actually find this interesting, being a storyteller. When you've done my job as long as I have, you develop a team of people around you. I'm the oldest among my group, and I've spent the last year passing down a sort of oral history to the younger employees in my circle of influence."

Charles is speaking in a hushed voice, carefully avoiding any word choices that would reveal his vocation to anyone eavesdropping. A querying look from Charles prompts Rick to nod in understanding. His son gets it.

Charles continues. "There are, of course, written records related to the work, and some of them are softer resources, like psychological assessments of the people we encounter. But the bulk of it is operational. The science, if you will. The real art of it, the ability to read a person, impressions you form about an organization, a...an employee from a competing company, is largely undocumented. So much of what I know is experiential, and when someone like me leaves, what I know leaves with me, unless I purpose otherwise."

"So, you tell stories?"

"Basically, yes. I've spent a lot of time reading over my old after action reports. It's been really eye opening for me, realizing that the way I'm retelling events now probably doesn't resemble at all the way I would have described a given event 30 years ago. For all I thought I knew then, time really has been the greatest teacher."

"I don't think I write the way I did 25 years ago, so that makes sense."

Charles just nods, and out of nowhere, Ethan startles and begins to cry.

"He's got to be hungry," Rick says. "I hate to wake Kate, it wasn't an easy day."

"What was-?" Charles checks himself, shakes his head. He has no business asking.

But Rick jumps in and replies, swaying as he lifts the baby on his shoulder. "She, uh...there was just a lot of bleeding after. It took them a while to get a handle on it."

The whole thing bears down on Rick again. He's forgotten to remind himself for the last few minutes, occupied as he's been, that Kate made it through okay. "She's fine, now," Rick asserts, as much for himself as for Charles.

For about 25 minutes, he's managed to be with Charles and not flash back to it. Blood, in small amounts, newly shed, is like little smears on a bandaid - bright red, like a Sharpie marker or syrup on a cherry snow cone. But when it pools in one place, it's much darker than you'd expect. He's seen it before, at a fresh crime scene, beneath the body of a victim, dusky as molasses, the cloying metallic tang of it hanging in an enclosed space like fog.

Ethan's birth wasn't all that dramatic. But the thin but persistent stream of blood must have gone on for 20 minutes. He's seen it, her blood, before; pooling on the gurney under Kate's body, turning as dark as her uniform blouse, squeezing out between his fingers, and then Lanie's, with no end in sight. Not sure how to pray, since she lost blood at the rate her heart was beating but the blood would only stop flowing if her heart ceased to push it along. Just like Kate, running herself on empty, never quitting until-

"Are you married?" Castle asks it before he knows it's coming out, but he's grateful for the interruption in his current train of thought.

"No, never. Came close once, but she called it off before we started mailing out invitations. Nice girl, agency girl. She wasn't in the field, but she knew all about it. Then I was a week overdue coming home from a zero-contact assignment overseas, and that was the end of our engagement. Can't blame her. I was a wreck, so I can't imagine how bad it was for someone waiting for me. I'm not saying that it's necessarily right or reasonable, but it's not a vocation that makes many allowances for matters of the heart."

Which takes them full circle, back to the letter Charles handed to Kate in the park three months ago, to the part Rick knows he'll have to make peace with in order for this to work. Once the curiosity wears off, will he be able to get past the knowledge that something else was more important to his father than being a father? He'll have to stop thinking about it in those terms if this is going anywhere. But it's a struggle. Rick, admittedly entirely due to his own choices, became a father under less than ideal circumstances. Even so, he can't imagine what it would have taken to keep him apart from Alexis.

Rick hopes it's deliberation rather than desperation that brings Charles here now. Kate has taught him something about that, the beauty of choosing. Kate's natural inclination is to be a solitary creature, but when she chooses to love, and it is a conscious choice for her, she does it beautifully. Her circle of loved ones is small, but being inside it makes the object of her affection feel precious, set apart. Admittedly, for years, the only relationship Rick pursued with real purpose was with his daughter. It's safe to bet all your chips on someone who's completely dependent on you. Not to cheapen what he has with Alexis, which is positively vibrant, but it's true. Just as it was true for him and Martha. You can count on someone who needs you as badly as you need them, when it's as valuable and necessary as breathing. But there's something absolutely breathtaking about being chosen.

Ethan, who has been as reasonable as a six-hour old can be, lets out a tiny, newborn-sized wail. "He's not going to stop fussing until he eats something," Rick says with certainty. A beat passes, and with that, holds his newborn son out, over to Charles, laying him in the hands that reflexively reach up for him. Shaky and a little unsure, as hands go, or at least as surprised as is humanly possible. Rick watches for a moment, as his father bounces the boy lightly in the air, a few inches above his lap, and satisfied, says, "I'll be right back."


	15. Chapter 15

AN: I'm a mom. If you've never had a baby, and/or object to hearing some of the unglamorous details of the immediate aftermath of childbirth, this may not be your chapter. Like chapter 1, not really graphic, but forewarned is forearmed.

* * *

Kate wakes to a weird sensation. The room feels warm enough, but she's feeling a little cold and clammy under the sheet. Throwing it off, she gropes around for the light switch and turns on the light over her bed.

"Huh," is all that she manages.

Alexis unfurls from her scrunched up perch on the sofa and pushes up to a sitting position. "Kate? What's wrong?"

"Uh, that session with the lactation consultant a couple of hours ago may have been a bust, pun intended, but now..." she waves a hand over the front of her hospital gown.

Two large, wet spots on the front of the pale pink cotton gown have merged in the middle of her chest. Kate pulls the damp fabric away, with a little shiver, and looks sort of dumbly at Alexis. "I should probably do something about this."

Alexis laughs, a little too loudly for the hour and the locale, and slaps a hand over her gaping grin. "This gets to be funny, right?" she asks through her fingers."Because, really? Kate? That?" She points at Kate's chest with no shame. "At four in the morning, that's funny."

Beckett goes for a scowl, but her heart isn't in it. "When your own baby makes your boobs blow up, there will be absolutely no-"

"No mercy, I get it," Alexis agrees, and hops off the sofa to rummages through the drawers for a clean gown. "Where's Dad?"

Kate runs a hand through her knotted hair and makes a face. A shower is sooooo called for. "He couldn't get comfortable in the chair. My guess is he gave up and went to get coffee."

Kate eases up off the bed and takes Alexis' arm for a minute to find her sea legs. Once convinced she can cross the room without face-planting, Kate accepts the clean garment and waves it in the direction of the private bathroom. "I'm gonna go clean up, and then how about we walk down to the nursery and see if we can spring your brother?"

With a hint of a smile on her lips, Alexis replies. "I really like the sound of that. My _brother_."

"Sorry for the age gap," Kate admits ruefully. "It's a little ridiculous."

"No doubt," Alex is agrees. "But you know what? I wouldn't change it, Kate. I like the way we are, our little family."

_Family. _ Kate ducks her head so a curtain of hair covers her face, and clears her throat. It takes so little to get her going these days, and today in particular, she's been a total waterworks. She wonders how long it will take before things like this don't completely undo her. It better not last a day longer than her maternity leave, that's for sure. "I'm glad," she eventually works out around the burning in her throat.

"So if I hugged you right now...?" Alexis asks.

"You'd have to scrape me off the floor."

"Right. Later, then." Alexis giggles, and settles for planting a noisy kiss in Kate's messy hair. "I need to catch up on e-mail. I mean, unless you think you need help?"

Kate shakes her head and escapes, albeit slowly, to the privacy of the bathroom. Alexis watches her until the bathroom door clicks closed, and then digs her iPad out of her bag.

Inside the bathroom, the lighting is surprisingly merciful. Kate can turn on only the lights over the vanity, leaving the shower mostly untouched by the florescent glare. Way too early in the morning for that.

Kate lays the clean gown down on bathroom counter, wrinkling her nose as she pulls a couple of items out of the container provided by the hospital. Like her lactation issues, later on, this will all surely be funny. Maxi pads the size of a small canoe, and the scary, one-size fits all disposable underwear must be something women apparently don't talk about, saving the joy of this experience for other first-time moms to discover on their own. Forget how unglamorous childbirth itself is - Castle hasn't seen her in the disposable spandex granny panties yet. If she's lucky, he never will.

She's never that lucky.

Kate turns the shower on to a setting just short of thermonuclear and carefully divests herself of all things icky. Steam is already billowing out from behind the curtain when she pushes it back and gingerly steps inside...and almost swoons. The only thing arresting her downward progress is a white-knuckled grip on the stainless steel safety rail. There's a little plastic shower stool in the corner, and she drags it over with a toe and sinks down onto it, carefully. Kate likes her showers and her coffee the same way – hot. But this is overdoing it.

A little faucet adjustment and a handful of shampoo later, and she's on her way to feeling human again. It's slow going, rinsing her hair and scrubbing herself down. So tired, so shaky, and aching in places she didn't know she had. No afternoon of crunches on the balance ball has ever equaled the workout her abs have endured today. It reminds her of the days after her shooting a little too much for her liking.

When she's done washing off, Kate leans into the front corner of the shower, just letting the hot water beat on her back and shoulders. Even in the dim light, she can see the intermittent streaks of pink and red where the water runs off the little plastic chair and circles the drain.

After Ethan came, the nurses gave her two units of blood and a bag of saline to boost her flagging blood pressure. They certainly didn't cover than in the birthing class. The woman who taught the childbirth class delivered a baby and ran the New York half marathon three weeks later. A focused, athletic person like Kate? Childbirth would be a piece of cake.

Right.

Trembling and wiped out as she still is, a smile blooms on her lips. Kate has a son, now. She has a date with a little boy down the hall, a boy with her husband's solid frame and Kate's dark hair and long fingers. She knows it's a reflex; all babies grasp whatever touches the palm of their hand. He was only a few minutes old when resting in the curve of her body, Ethan grasped her thumbs and held on with both hands.

The baby book said that while it would be weeks before her child's vision would be good beyond a few inches, he would know the cadence and timbre of her voice right away, so she talked to him constantly, when he was in the womb. In the bed, in the car, at her desk, standing in front of a shelf full of baked Cheetos in the grocery store. Propped up in the hospital bed, Kate had leaned in, cheek to cheek with her son, a low melody on her lips. "Ethan. Ethan James. Oh, my sweet boy, how your momma loves you. Love you always, always, always."

The already sure little grip pressed in even tighter on the pads of her fingers, exactly what she needed to feel, that connection, that response. Just like his daddy, actually. His touch exactly what she needs, when she needs it.

One day she'll teach those little hands to pick out chords on her old guitar. Kate's smile grows bigger on that thought, and then recedes. Hormones are a funny thing, the up and down would be comical if the down that's hitting her now was something she could ever dream of laughing through.

It's a big day. On days like this, a thought loops over and over in her head - _Mom should be here for this._

Kate knows she'll feel that way a thousand times over, for the rest of her life. Nothing she can do about it now. Her dad, a habitual early riser, will be in her hospital room before breakfast is served in the morning. He's wanted this baby so much, it's ridiculous. Or endearing. Hard to tell when she's so woozy. Jim, he will be missing his wife, too, but the baby will help. And hurt.

"Kate? Do I need to haul you out of there?" Alexis asks through a crack in the doorway.

Kate's head shoots up from its resting place against the cool shower wall and the subway tiles waver like a mirage, and then right themselves. "What? No, I...uh, I'm on my way out."

"Okay, I was just starting to get a little worried."

Kate cranks the shower knob off. "How long have I been in here?" It occurs to Kate that she has no idea; the whole day has been that way, too fast and slow motion all at once.

"Over half an hour," Alexis informs her, with a tinge of lingering concern in her voice.

"I...seriously?"

"Yeah, and it's like fog on the Hudson in here. Do you need help getting out?"

"Can you just hand me a towel?" Kate sways a little on the way, but manages to get to the other end of the small enclosure and hold a hand out through the curtain. The soft pile of a bath towel brushes against her palm, and it takes three swipes before Kate gets a good grip on it. She's not surprised when her step-daughter's hand lands in a death-grip around her wrist.

"Seriously, it's a hundred humid degrees in here. If you Peter Pan onto the tile because you're being all self-reliant and Beckett-like, I'm not gonna be happy with you, and Dad will flip."

Kate takes the towel with an unconvincing huff. "Fine, stay put for a second, will you?" She runs the towel over her dripping hair and swipes it over her body, doing the best she can while leaning heavily on the shower wall. Wrapping it around herself and clutching it closed with one hand, she peeks out at Alexis. "If I can just sit down, I think I can take it from there."

Alexis leads her by one hand to the toilet seat, where Kate gingerly sits down on the lid.

Kate hunches forward a little, swiping her dripping hair out of her eyes to peek up at her step daughter. "I can tell, you're thinking how glamorous this all is."

"I'm gonna run out and have one right away. Now, what do you need?"

"Umm, I have some pajama pants in my bag over there, gray ones. I can get to everything else from here."

Alexis brings her step mom the pants with a stern warning to not do anything stupid, and pulls the door just to, without completely closing it.

"Don't worry about your hair," the younger woman hollers back through the gap. "Just get dressed and I'll take care of it out here, 'kay?"

"Thanks, I don't think I could do anything with it." Kate reaches for the gown a couple of feet away on the counter. They're not exactly high fashion, but the lactation consultant pointed out that the ties in the back of the hospital gown make it easier to nurse without having to completely undress.

And dear, sweet, lovable Alexis is going to fix her hair for her.

"Right," Kate grouses, barely above a whisper. "Like that won't make me cry."


	16. Chapter 16

Kate emerges from the bathroom about ten minutes later in yoga pants and the new hospital gown, a dark purple cotton bathrobe around her shoulders. She waves a pair of grippy-bottom socks at Alexis and grimaces. "I'd really rather not bend over as far as it's going to take to do this. I'll get your Dad to buy you an apartment on Central Park West if you help me put them on."

Alexis laughs and drops her iPad into her bag. Crossing the room in three eager steps, she takes Kate by the arm. "No bribery necessary, hop up."

"No hopping just yet." Kate sidles up to the hospital bed and takes the remote control in hand, lowering the mattress about six inches. "Feel the power..." she whispers as it hums into place. "When I'm old, I'm totally going to have one of these. Just with a way better mattress."

"You watch those adjustable memory foam bed infomercials late at night, don't you?" Alexis asks, a smirk on her face.

"A natural by-product of years of insomnia," Kate admits. Scooting carefully back onto the bed, Kate continues, with a note of put-on shame in her voice, "I almost bought a Flowbee once, too."

"A what?"

"A Flowww-beeeee?" Kate repeats, like saying it slower will solve everything. Alexis only looks confused. The brand of confused Kate has learned she inherited from her father – equal parts astounded that there's something she doesn't know, and excited that she's about to learn it.

"I...no. Just no. I'm not that old, you're just that young." Kate is muttering and scrubbing a hand across her forehead.

"I remind you that you still need socks. And a comb out. _What_ is a Flowbee?" Alexis persists.

Kate sighs, and examines the light sprinkling of age spots on the back of her hand. Like hyper-emotionality, another by-product of pregnancy that she hopes will fade with time. And another addition to the list of things making her feel older. "It was an invention that let you cut your hair..." Kate grimaces, imagining what's coming next. This is going to sound stupid, but she's too tired to cast it in a less ridiculous light. "...that let you cut your hair using a vacuum cleaner."

"Kate, did they give you anything for pain, or is this profound silliness just a product of extreme exertion and no sleep?"

"I kind of remember them shooting something into my I.V. at one point, but by now I think this might just be exhaustion. Except the Flowbee part, that's true."

Alexis drags the rocker recliner formerly inhabited by her father a few feet, until it's next to be bed, and sits. "Keep talking," she orders Kate, as she takes a sock and scrunches it down until she can reach the toe.

Kate rolls her head around, popping a couple of joints, stretching the muscles of her neck. "You hooked this hose onto the vacuum and plugged it in and these little razor sharp rotating blades cut your hair, while the vacuum sucked all the hair clippings into the vacuum bag. You could choose how short your hair was cut with a sizer, just like a pair of electric clippers. Only a lot bigger. And with a Hoover attached to it."

Alexis gapes. "You're totally making that up. It sounds like something Dad would concoct just to mess with me."

Kate looks down, and realizes both feet are now shod in warm, heather gray grippy socks. "I kid you not," Kate continues, wiggling her toes. "And there were Ginsu knives, and juice-o-matics, and Popeil rotisserie ovens and magic face cream made of crushed pearls and a whole real estate program that guaranteed to make you thousands upon thousands of dollars of monthly income with almost no effort whatsoever." Kate has a brief Johnny Vong flashback, and wrinkles her nose.

"Po-what ovens?" Alexis is sure she's still drugged.

Kate shakes her head, a little like a dog drying off after a bath. She swipes at the wet ends of her hair as they swinging around and stick to her chin. "The Flowbee came out in, like, '88 or '89...and you were born in ...1994," Kate finishes on a sigh. "You are _so_ much older than Ethan. Why did you let us have a baby?" Kate moans.

"Kate?"

"Yeah?"

"You probably need to shut up and let me fix your hair." It sounds harsh, but Alexis is smirking again.

"Right. You're right," Kate admits, burying her face in her hands. "Too little sleep," she mumbles.

"Too many hormones," Alexis calls back, having disappeared into the bathroom for a moment. She returns with a purple wet comb in hand, and a hair elastic. She sits on the bed behind Kate, and starts running the comb through her step mom's long, chestnut hair. The back and shoulders of Kate's robe are soaked through.

"Did you dry this at all?" Alexis asks.

"Nope," Kate admits.

"We're just gonna ignore that, right?"

"Yep."

"Fair enough." Alexis divides Kate's hair and starts a braid.

Sitting up straight is a chore, her lower back and abs protesting with the effort. Kate tries to ignore it, focusing instead on the gentle, methodical drag of Alexis' fingers through her hair. Visits to the stylist excepted, this hasn't happened in a long time. A slumber party at Maddie's in high school was probably the last time somebody else took the time to braid it for her. By the time she was in uniform, Kate was thoroughly adept at braiding her own hair to keep it all up under her cap.

"My hair was always long when I was little," Kate says. "Really long, there for a while. Mom braided it all the time, just to get it out of the way, and keep it from tangling up. I bet it was in the thousands, the number of times she sat with me and did exactly what you're doing right now. It was half way down my back, and she'd take her time, and we'd just talk...about school, what my friends were doing. Nothing big usually, just the little things that made up my day. And she's talk about her work, too. If she had a new client or got to make a trip to the courthouse or the library.

"And then I got my hair bobbed in junior high. I just got tired of fussing with it, and I thought it would make me look older, and it did. Part of it was my hair, and part of it, the fact that I was going through the beginning of my Goth period, which lasted all of three months, until Dad got home one evening and saw that I'd painted my fingernails black and was wearing a pair of ripped black fishnet hose under my jean skirt."

Alexis, quiet so far, chokes on a laugh, imagining a gangly, 13-year old Kate in a ghostly makeup and heavy black eyeliner. "Are there any pictures?"

Kate glances back over her shoulder. "I don't think so, Dad was pretty ticked. A girl named Trisha, who was in my grade, lived in the building next door. Trisha's older sister, Pam, was way into the Goth look, and I was completely fascinated with it. I was saving my allowance for a corset I found in a costume catalog, but that plan ended abruptly when Dad got a hold of me. He'd seen Pam's wardrobe too, and there was no way on earth he was going to let me run around in black lip-liner and platform boots and smoke clove cigarettes and who knows what else with guys who looked like Pam's boyfriend. Needless to say, I wasn't allowed to play at Trisha's house for the rest of that summer."

Alexis winds the elastic around the end of the finished braid and sits down on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Kate, facing the other way, eager to hear more.

Kate pauses, trying to get a clear picture of it in her mind, and shakes her head."You'd think the my most prominent memory of it would be Dad squashing my first little fashion rebellion. But the thing that really stuck with me was the shift in my relationship with Mom. For years, I sat with her and we'd just talk while she braided my hair. After I cut it, we didn't have that time. Not that we didn't talk, but we had to make time for it, whereas before it was just an organic part of the day. It never occurred to me I'd feel the absence of it so strongly, all because I was in the seventh grade and wanted to cut my hair."

Kate finally turns to look at Alexis, who returns a brief, pained, sidelong glance. They are both quiet for a few minutes, as Kate silently kicks herself for throwing a wet blanket on the moment. Just as Kate draws a breath to apologize, Alexis begins to speak.

"Dad was really good at braiding my hair. He told me once he picked it up from the actresses backstage at Gram's plays. I know exactly what you mean about the conversations. They're some of my favorite memories growing up."

Alexis is drawing strands of her own titian hair out between her fingertips, over and over, fixed on it, not making eye contact. At length, she speaks, quieter than before. "I don't have memories of my mother helping me do my hair, or helping me do much of anything that's day to day. She's an occasional shopping buddy, who likes to charge her mani-pedi to my father's Amex, and eat expensive lunches. She may be my mother, and I'll even go so far as to say we have fun together sometimes, but she's never really been my mom. I know I'm not little any more, and it shouldn't bother me, but sometimes it still does."

The ache Kate has been feeling, the one that has nothing to do with the physical side effects of childbirth, and everything to do with missing her mother, distills into a fierce urge to make this somehow better for her step-daughter. Kate clears her throat and shifts to face the younger woman, ducking down to look Alexis in the eye.

"I think when you're somebody's child, their absence hurts you, when and however it occurs. Your dad is 45 years old and he's scrambling to make sense of this overture Charles has finally made. I've missed Mom every day since I was 19. And then I lost four years with my dad, when I needed him most, to his alcoholism. I had to forgive my dad for quitting on me after mom died, and your dad is going to have to do the same for Charlie if they're going to work things out. Loss is loss at any age, Alexis. You have _every right_ to feel ripped off. I think you're pretty amazing, wise beyond your years, for being able to feel that loss without letting it rule you, without letting it become resentment. For a long time I wasn't so adept at handling mine."

Alexis' eyes, brimming with tears, close as she leans in and drops her forehead onto Kate's shoulder. There's something painfully childlike about the gesture, and Kate hurts along with her. They sit for a while, huddled together, teardrops making little dark spots on Kate's cotton pants. It's been a slow, sometimes uphill climb to arrive at the easy intimacy of a family that they share now, but in this moment, Kate realizes it's not yet enough.

"Alexis, if you want to write this off as whatever drugs they gave me, I won't hold it against you. I know I'm barely mathematically eligible for the job, but the longer I love your dad and the longer I love Martha and you, the more I feel like you're mine. And I'll braid your hair anytime."


	17. Chapter 17

Alexis pushes away, red-rimmed eyes wide, mouth formed in a perfect O of astonishment.

Kate cringes. It was a mistake, stupid of her to consider anything she might say or do would make a dent in a lifetime of Alexis' disappointment. She said it too soon, maybe it would have been better to not say it at all, but it's out there, and she meant it, and if she's reading the younger woman right, Kate just made a fool out of herself.

"I...Alexis, that sounded right in my head, but I over ste—ooof!" The rush of air leaving Kate's lungs with Alexis' rib-cracking hug makes an audible noise.

"Don't you dare take that back," Alexis hisses, squeezing harder.

"Alexis!" Kate gets out, just barely.

"Seriously, shut up, you're going to ruin it."

Kate can only squeak now, and Alexis lets go, cheeks pink with chagrin. "Sorry, you probably need to breathe."

"You're going to make me leak again." Kate's half-hearted admonition is canceled out entirely by the catch in her voice and tears gathering on her own lashes. She thumbs away a tear clinging to Alexis' chin and sighs. "Look, Alexis, I don't mean to give offense, and I won't ever mention it again, because it's not my place, but it's absolutely unfathomable how Meredith let 21 years go by without making sure she got to spend every day possible with you. You're bright and beautiful and kind and so much fun, and she's an idiot of the first order."

Alexis shakes her head and huffs out a little laugh; she's not offended in the least. "Dad tries to be a little bit diplomatic about her, because he doesn't want to drive a wedge, but Gram's been telling me the same thing my whole life."

"Rick has one job, and Martha has another, and they're both right."

Alexis wipes her eyes and nose on the cuff of her long-sleeved t-shirt. "We never talked about it, but I know I wasn't always fair to you."

Kate shakes her head. "I was a train wreck for a long time, and we both know it. You had every right to be worried about your Dad. It was never out of place."

Alexis picks at a loose string on her sleeve. "Still..."

"Hey," Kate tugs on her hand, and Alexis looks up. "Can we agree we love each other and call bygones? I'm good if you are."

"Yeah," Alexis agrees, a small smile blooming on her face. "You know, I really like the two of you together now. The way you are, it makes me want what you have."

Kate is glad she's been sitting for this conversation, because if the sheer violence of Alexis' embrace hadn't done it earlier, this would have definitely landed her on the floor. She's going to end up crying again, no question. "Including the years of heartache, miscommunication and outright stupidity?" Kate asks, hoping to lighten the moment.

Alexis wrinkles her nose. "I'd just as soon skip the drama."

"Good call." Kate takes a deep breath. "I love him, I do. I never thought I'd get the chance to be this happy."

"You're peaceful now," Alexis observes, thoughtful. "You didn't used to be."

Kate looks up, a little surprised. "Yeah, I think that's true. It's nice, belonging somewhere. Family-wise, I mean. It didn't feel like this, so close to complete, for a long time. You're a big part of that."

Alexis just nods, shyly, picking at the string on her sleeve again, the same, pleased smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Thanks."

It floods back with such clarity, a memory of her mother. It was three weeks before the fall semester of her freshman year, and Johanna had taken a day off work to help pack Kate's boxes for Stanford. The whole day was a litany of unsolicited advice, and more than one detour through an old photo album they found while packing. They were sitting across from one another on the foot of Kate's twin bed, just as Kate and Alexis are now, with an album of baby pictures open between them and cardboard boxes all around.

"You know this is going to change things, right?" her mother had asked. "It's supposed to, this is the way it works. It'll change how you see the world and what you want from it. Four years from now, I promise, it won't be the same as it is now. It's not a bad thing, it just means you're growing up."

"Mom, really-" Kate had tried to cut her off.

"No, Katie, all the admonitions about boys and partying aside, I need you to hear this, more than anything else. Whatever changes over the next few years, one thing will always be true - you're mine. I can't say that with such conviction about anyone else on earth." Tears started to gather on Johanna's lashes, her voice wavering but sure. "God let me help make you, and raise you, and you're going to take everything we taught you to California and become whoever you're going to be. I have all the faith in the world that you're going to make an amazing life for yourself. But whatever happens, Katie, I want you to know that if it ever falls apart, you can always come home. Because you're mine, and I'll always want you, no matter what."

Kate had cried, and her mother cried, too. That benediction stuck with Kate, the indelible mark of a mother who loved and supported her. Even though it didn't turn out to be strictly true. Her life definitely fell apart, but there was no home to go to, not for a long time. But Kate had no doubt she and her mother would be the best of friends now. Had Johanna only lived.

One day, probably sooner than any of them imagine, Alexis will have a day that calls for a mother's touch. Practically, and probably emotionally speaking, it's Kate's job now, and she means to do it. For weeks, it's all been about the baby; she and Castle both preoccupied with doctor's appointments, nursery details and packing and repacking her hospital bag. Apparently, today gets to be about Alexis, too. It's fitting. After all, Ethan isn't the only Castle baby.

Kate starts to ease off the bed. "Baby brother."

"Right." Alexis wipes at her cheeks and runs her hands back through her hair. "Do you need anything?"

Kate pushes all the way off the mattress and sways a little. "Just someone to hold onto so I don't run face-first into a wall."

Alexis is off the bed in a flash, stepping around to offer her arm. "At your service."

They head out the door and down the hall toward the nursery, arm in arm, bumping shoulders companionably. It's not exactly a blistering pace, but Kate is grateful to be seeing something other than the four walls of her room.

"Did you see the nursery on the way in?" Alexis asks.

"No, but we did a tour at the start of November. I think we turn left. Or right. Really, I have no idea now. I just know it's on the opposite side of the building from the nurses' station."

Alexis, unconvinced, lets go and jogs ahead to make sure they're even on the right hallway. At the intersection, she looks, left, and then right. And right some more. She glances back at Kate. The look on Alexis' face is something Kate can't identify, she just knows it's not right.

"Alexis?"

"We have a problem? Or we don't, maybe. It depends."

A problem? A little of the nausea that plagued Kate all morning stirs in her gut. There's a hand rail along one wall, and Kate leans over to grasp it. "What problem?"

Alexis drifts back from the hallway intersection, nearer to Kate. "Dad's in the nursery, talking to one of the nurses."

"Okay?"

"Those pictures you took in the park that day? Of _him_?"

"Of your dad?" Kate asks, thoroughly confused.

"No, Kate. _Him_."

"Him?" Kate's typically quick wits are set to nominal today, and it takes a minute to register. "*_Him* him_? _Charles?_"

"Yeah, he's sitting on the floor outside the nursery, holding a baby. I think he's holding Ethan."


	18. Chapter 18

"Huh?" Kate asks dumbly. "Seriously?"

The flat, humorless look on Alexis' face is the redhead's only reply.

"Right, sorry. Why would you joke about that?" Kate agrees, pinching the bridge of her nose. Too, too little sleep. What does she do now? Kate ruminates on it for a minute, wishing for all the world that she had a cup of coffee to help clear the fog. Finally, she holds out a hand. "Do you have your phone?"

"What? Why?" Alexis gropes around in the big pocket in the front of her pullover hoodie. Alexis holds out her I-Phone, but yanks it back just as Kate's fingers almost close around it. "You do realize that everyone in their right mind is asleep right now, right?"

Kate snags Alexis by the wrist and pads down the hallway, unlocking the phone as she goes. When they get to the intersection, Kate blindly aims the phone around the corner and snaps a photograph. Sure enough, when she pulls it back to look, there is Charlie, or the left half of him at least, necktie askew, parked on the floor under the nursery window. It's a long hallway, probably over a hundred feet to the nursery, but it's clearly Charles Trent. There's a little blanket-wrapped bundle resting on his lap – her bundle. Kate turns the screen toward Alexis.

"That is definitely your granddad," Kate confirms. She drags Alexis back toward her hospital room until they're safely out of earshot. Kate studies photo, chewing on her thumb nail. "How dumb did I look doing that Get Smart thing with your phone, anyway?"

"I'm still blaming your behavior on the drugs, so don't sweat it." Alexis smiles with her gentle jab.

Kate just shakes her head. "Maybe so. But now I can do this." Kate taps the picture, attaches it to a text message with a "911" and sends it to Martha's cell phone.

"I stand corrected," Alexis admits.

A sigh. "I _so_ didn't follow that."

Alexis nods toward the phone. "Anyone in their right mind?"

"If she's crazy, it's only crazy like a _fox_," Kate mumbles under her breath.

"Oh no, rich people don't go crazy, they become _eccentric_."

"In that case," Kate laments, "by the time we sort out all of our family problems, I'm going to be very, _very eccentric_."

If it takes longer than sixty seconds for the phone to ring, it's not by much.

"Have I been drinking?" Martha asks sleepily, as soon as Kate answers on speaker. "I don't _remember _drinking. But then again, if I drank _enough_, I wouldn't exactly remember it, am I right?"

"You didn't answer with a show tune, so I'm gonna say no."

"Kate, dear girl! But I saw Alexis' number?"

"I'm here, Gram," Alexis assures her.

"Darlings! Either somebody spiked my chamomile tea, or Charlie is holding the baby. I used raw, local honey, and at the time felt very dietarily self-righteous about it. Can buttulism make you hallucinate?"

"Martha, you're not high, it's really him."

"Great Scott!" Martha exclaims.

"Exactly," Kate agrees. "What do I do, Martha? I feel like I have to do something here."

Over the line, they hear sheets rustle and the bedside lamp click. Martha exhales through her nose. "He's a good man, Kate. He's just out of practice being loved."

"I don't doubt it, but _what do I do now_?"

"With a little time, I'm certain we could devise something very clever...but that's out the window. Soooo...yes! How about this? A family dinner, this Saturday night. I'll take care of everything. You know your husband, Kate. If Richard looks at all hopeful, don't let this opportunity pass us by. Don't give Charlie the chance to second guess himself. I'll order in that duck a l'orange, you'll invite Jim. We'll stuff ourselves and pamper you and take turns holding Ethan. Charlie and Richard will hit it off, or they won't, but it won't be because we didn't take this chance. How about that?"

Kate casts a questioning look at Alexis, who is being really, really quiet.

Alexis looks down at Martha's likeness on the screen and back up to Kate. "I like duck a l'orange."

If Alexis, whose reasoning skills are more intact than her sleepy grandmother's or her exhausted step-mother's, can see the sense in this plan, Kate can roll with that.

"Thank you, Martha. I'll give it a go. Sorry I woke you, I just didn't know where to start."

"Poppycock. We made a muck of this forty five years ago and you're trying to help fix it. If this works, I shall throw a parade in your honor!" And then, in a more subdued tone, "I love you, kiddo. Thank you for taking such good care of my boy. And you, too, Alexis, my sweet girl."

Kate blinks at the phone laying in her palm, a beat passing before she remembers to reply. Martha has always been overwhelming; but after all these years, she still catches Kate absolutely flat-footed. "Love you, too."

A little hum and something sounding like an air kiss ends the call. Kate looks at the phone for a moment, and hands it back to Alexis. "So we invite him to dinner?"

"Yeah, I guess? Gram thinks it's the way to go. She knows them both, which nobody else here can claim."

"What about you? You'd tell me if you think this is a mistake, right?"

Alexis locks the screen and pockets her phone, stalling to get her thoughts in order. Finally she meets Kate's eyes. Resolve. That's what Kate sees burning there.

"My whole life, Dad has been this big, sweet, hopeful, optimistic bundle of enthusiasm. He's so curious about everything, like a little kid. Has to know the answer, solve the riddle. He was content imagining his father was an astronaut or inventor or something crazy. I didn't fully realize why. It's not because as a storyteller he likes the romantic ideal better; it's because he didn't expect _any good _to come from knowing. In the back of his mind, even though he never voiced it quite this starkly, he thought that he was _better off without him_. I know it's a product of Dad hurting more than he's ever let on, but that level of pessimism is so unlike him, that frankly, I reject it on his behalf."

Alexis, pretty wound up at this point, stops and takes a deep breath. When she begins again, it's in a softer tone, but just as full of conviction. "Dad doesn't _want_ to want this, but he _does; _it's written all over him. I know how important it is to have a good father, because I have the best. Gram says Charles is a good man, and she'd never want to see Dad get hurt. If Charles is here and making the effort, I say we do everything in our power to make this a good story, and not a bad one."

Kate has said it to her husband before -this is a family made of half-orphaned children. She and Castle have spoken at length about it, how determined they are to break the cycle wrought over the years both by forces without and within, that has left most of their clan navigating the absence of a parent. They have made a covenant as a family that Ethan will reach adulthood with both parents present, whatever it takes. But what if Castle can do it now, too? And what if Kate fills in where Meredith never will, and Alexis lets her. And like moments ago, Kate gets to lean on Martha for a shot of wisdom when she's coming up dry?

It's too much to hope for; what staggers Kate is that it's _happening_.

"This is getting old," Kate quips, wiping her eyes for the third or fourth or twentieth time since the day began. "Am I really this hormonal mess?"

"Yes, but you love my Dad, and you just gave birth, so it's very true to character. Work it."

Kate snorts and makes one more pass over her face, runs a hand over her braid and straightens here robe. A tear track shines on Alexis cheek, and Kate rubs it away with her thumb. Taking Alexis' arm again, she squares them off, facing back the way they came.

"Is this the part where I gird my loins?" Alexis stage whispers.

"I certainly hope not," Kate says, laughing, on the edge of delirious. "But come what may, let's go make a dinner date."


	19. Chapter 19

When Alexis and Kate round the corner, Charles looks up immediately. It's not exactly a guilty face, but something like the slightly abashed smirk of a party crasher caught at the open bar. As they draw closer, he lifts his grandson a few inches off his lap, bouncing him lightly with a ghost of a smile on his lips. On the other side of the glass, Castle's back is to them, crouched by a little mini-fridge in the corner of the nursery, oblivious to the new arrivals.

"Fancy meeting you here." Kate hopes she's coming off more casual than she feels.

"About that-" Charles begins, but Kate waves him off, nodding in her husband's direction.

"Castle raiding their mini-fridge? I swear, I can't take him anywhere."

Charles might have laughed at that, but for Alexis. His oldest grandchild kneels close enough to touch, but so far only has eyes for the baby squirming in his lap. Alexis brushes a hand over Ethan's head, shushing the boy and smoothing out the angry wrinkles forming on his tiny brow. Finally, she spares her grandfather a long, uncomfortable, appraising look as Ethan winds up to a full, newborn-sized wail.

Alexis holds out her hands and Charlie surrenders the baby without a word. Alexis cuddles Ethan to her chest, and presses a whisper of a kiss to his wrinkled brow, and then the soft spot on top of his head. She held her newborn brother a couple of hours ago, shortly after he arrived; she almost came undone then, overcome with an emotion she's never felt before. For over 20 years it was just her, and it never bothered her to be an only child. In a way, she and her father had grown up together; she always had someone to play with and dream with, and she just didn't want for a sibling all that much. But earlier, when Kate watched as her father shooed her into the rocking chair to lay her baby brother in her arms? Alexis could scarcely breathe around the urgent swell of emotion.

Even now, as the baby's pulse beats strong against her cheek, tears burn at the back of her eyes. Apparently Kate isn't the only one so easily moved tonight. In the sweetest, most soothing tone, Alexis speaks to her baby brother.

"We're so glad Grandpa Charlie is here, aren't we, Ethan? We want him to know just how excited we are to see him. And we also want Grandpa Charlie to know that your _big sister Alexis_ has worked for the New York City Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for nearly _four years_. And if Grandpa Charlie is a bad man instead of a good man, and he's here to hurt Daddy instead of help Daddy, then Grandpa Charlie oughtta know that he's not the only one who _knows people_." Alexis drives that home with a glare. "And if we have to take Grandpa Charlie out, nobody will ever go to jail for it, will they?"

Ethan settles and coos, struggling to focus in on the face producing, words notwithstanding, so angelic a sound.

Charlie has the good sense to remain silent. And look highly uncomfortable.

Kate has to bite down on her lips to not to diminish the weight of the moment by smiling. She had no idea this was coming, and wonders how this is going to work its way around to a dinner invitation, but she can't fault her step-daughter's execution, which is simultaneously tender and terrifying. The man before her actually looks a little nauseous. Kate is beyond proud. _Alexis Castle, bad cop. Who knew?_

Alexis pins her grandfather to the wall with another withering stare. "We're all willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but my dad is the sweetest, most generous guy in the world, and I won't let you take advantage of that. There are people a lot scarier than me who won't stand for it. You started this, so you better do it right. He deserves the best you have to give, and so does my Gram."

Charles lifts a trembling hand to cup Alexis' hand where it supports the baby's head. It's the first time he's ever touched his oldest grandchild. Alexis grits her teeth, determined to give no quarter, even though she's fairly sure Charles can tell she's shaking, too. For his part, Charles closes his eyes against it all for a moment, overwhelmed. This is worse than walking into the chapel, if that's possible. The way Alexis is protecting Richard, it's an impulse he can appreciate. If they can get past this initial death threat of hers, he and Alexis will be very good friends.

The older man clears his throat; when he finally speaks, it's softly, and with great conviction. "I've never wanted anything but the best for Richard and Martha. For a long time that definitely wasn't me. I'm still not convinced it is, but on my life, I'm only here to make the best of the time we have, now that I can do it without putting them in harm's way."

Alexis sniffs, her rigid defenses softening a little. "As long as we're on the same page." She stands with Ethan in her arms. She brushes an Eskimo kiss across the baby's nose and turns toward Kate, just as Castle emerges from the nursery.

"Hey, guess we don't need this now?"Castle waves the little pre-measured bottle of Enfamil at his wife. "You were zonked out, and he's starving."

"Yeah, I think I'll give him another go," Kate says. "I'm about to explode."

Castle, nearly as tired as his wife, allows his gaze to drop and linger in the vicinity of Kate's chest, for a moment. "Right," he agrees, nodding stupidly, unable to dream up a good joke or innuendo. His attention takes a drowsy slide in his daughter's direction. "Oh!" he exclaims, just now registering her presence. "I'm sorry, Alexis, this is-"

"Taken care of," Kate interrupts. "We're all introduced."

"Right," Alexis nods, trying to appear more sunny than murderous. "Oh, and hey," she turns to Charles again. "Don't let that keep you from coming to dinner on Saturday night. In fact, I insist."

"That's right," Kate dives in, relieved. "Command performance. Seven o'clock. Whole family will be there."

"I..." Charles tamps down a flash of shock, looking from Alexis to Kate and back again. "I...I can do that."

A little wrinkle forms between Castle's eyebrows as he replays what he just heard. _Don't let that keep you?_ He shoots his wife a querying look. Kate smiles and looks him in the eye – _just go with it. _He can scarcely argue when Kate is so certain and he's the one so entirely confused. He nods vigorously. "Great, all settled then."

Alexis turns to Kate. "Do you want him?"

"Yes, but honestly, I'm afraid I'll drop him on his head. And just look at what that can do to you," she says, tossing a smirk back at Castle.

"You're killing me here you're so funny."

Kate turns, swaying in a way she hopes look more like art than sheer exhaustion. She lays a hand aside her husband's face. "You look just fine to me." He smiles, and she's overcome with a want to kiss her way up to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Since they have an audience and that audience is Charles (Alexis has seen far worse, far too often) she settles for dropping a light kiss on his lips, lingering for a few seconds to feel his grin broaden under her touch.

His mock indignation having completely vanished, Castle can't help but flirt her when she's so near. "You shouldn't look this fantastic right now. It violates some law of nature that only hours after giving birth you should look like a supermodel and you're ready to pull the ears off a gundark."

"The reference is "strong enough to pull the ears off a gundark." Kate clarifies with a superior quirk of her eyebrow. "And there are wonderful, restorative powers in a good shower...and a heart-to-heart with the eldest Castle child."

"You're all sci-fi nerdy, it's so hot." Castle bumps noses, about to dive in for another kiss.

Kate only manages another little peck and half-way falls into him, nose in the crease of his shoulder. "I don't feel so hot."

"You deliberately misunderstand me, woman," Castle growls good-naturedly at his wife as she hums into his shirt.

A couple of feet outside of their temporary bubble, Alexis is groaning. She casts a sideways look at Charles who remains seated on the floor, studying them all with an expression on his face that looks a lot like wonder. "It's like this all the time," Alexis informs her grandfather, temporarily forgetting to be stern. "It's been years and I can't even bring friends by the loft, it's _so _embarrassing."

"Hush, you," Castle orders his daughter. His left arm is around Kate, and the formula in his right. He tugs his daughter's sleeve with a free finger so she and Ethan are wrapped in to a four-way family hug with him and Kate. For a moment, with their heads huddled together, the only thing that moves them is the inhale and exhale of their breathing. And then, Ethan lets loose a tiny, hungry howl.

"And that's my cue." Kate pushes back with a rueful chuckle. She takes Alexis lightly by the arm and pulls her along down the hall. "See you Saturday, Charlie," Kate tosses back through a yawn.

Alexis waves at the two men over her shoulder, most of her attention on the squalling infant.

Castle watches them go, still eying the empty hallway after his family is out of sight. With no baby to distract them, the awkwardness he's afraid may dwell with this relationship for a while descends on them again. He looks around to Charles, who has been watching the women leave too, and now wears the same _what now?_ expression as his son.

Charles clears his throat. "You'd better go, son. I found my way in, I know my way out."

"Yeah," Castle replies, finally looking down at his father. "Here, let me help you up."

"Thanks." Charles takes his outstretched hand and groans a little on the way up. He shakes his knee out and tests putting weight on it, before finally letting go of Richard's hand. Off to his right, the exit sign glows orange, pulling is attention away for a moment. It's funny, how for over 40 years, it's the first thing Charles looks for in a building, the way out. It's the first time he's looked for one tonight. Maybe that's progress.

While his father is contemplating escape, Rick is studying a scuff on the toe of his left shoe. And the seam in the white tile floor. And the tiny ravel starting on the cuff of his jeans. "So you'll come to dinner? I know it's short notice, it's okay if you can't." Richard finally blurts out.

Charles is drawn back from his musings with a grin for his son. "I'll be there. I think I can stay the week, and if not, I'll fly back. It's not a big problem."

Something shifts in Rick's expression, and Charles silently curses himself. "I want to, you know. I'm glad they asked. Please don't read anything into my word choice, not for a while. I'm really out of the habit of...of being thoughtful about how I respond. It's my shortcoming to work on. I'll get better, I promise."

"Okay." Castle scrubs a hand over his face. "We'll look forward to it, dinner. Or at least we'll all get through it and see what's next."

"That's more than I have a right to hope for."

Castle just shakes his head, unsure if there's anything to be gained by responding to that. He settles for extending a hand again, which Charles Trent meets with an eager grip.

"You have a pretty incredible family there, Richard. I can see how happy it makes you. I'm glad for it."

It's Charlie's family, too, his son knows, if the man really wants it. One more piece added to the puzzle...just maybe. "Thank you," is all Castle manages with a brief smile, wishing he felt free to say more, hoping there will be a time when the clench in his gut relaxes enough to let him. He glances away toward the hallway intersection that leads to Kate's room. "I'd better go."

"Absolutely," Charles agrees. "I need to get back to my hotel and make a couple of calls and get some sleep. Saturday...I'll be there. I mean it."

Castle has gotten good at reading people, but feels off his game knowing Charles has probably done a lot of very convincing lying during his years at the agency. Still, all the younger man is reading is _sincere, sincere, sincere._ In his reply, he gives his father what he can. "I want believe that."

"Like I said," Charles says in parting, "more than I deserve." He makes for the exit without another word, and without turning to see if Richard is watching him go. In a way, he doesn't want to know.


	20. Chapter 20

In the gray light of very early morning, there is already one cab driving cursing out another for crossing three lanes of traffic and very nearly causing a pile-up on Broadway a couple of blocks shy of 220th Street. Jim, under ordinary circumstances would be irked, but this morning, he's almost convinced his ragged cab could float over the whole snarled mess and land him at Katie's hospital room door. Almost. As it is, he calls it quits, tips the cabbie a twenty and jogs the last two blocks along the slushy sidewalk, the big blue awning of the New York Presbyterian Allen Hospital barely visible in the light morning fog.

It's early. Way too early for visiting hours, but he's here and he's positively vibrating with anticipation. For while last night after Katie called, he allowed himself a few tears over what could have been, pictured himself bickering good-naturedly with Johanna over who would hold their new grandchild first. Knowing it would have been his wife, no doubt. He has a handle on it now. He hopes.

It's _really_ way too early for visiting hours.

And speaking of early? Katie went a little early. Her father was at the cabin, because he thought he had over a week to spare and Johanna's pregnancy ran almost two weeks late. So much for heredity. He had dropped his car in the driveway of his Brooklyn house and hoofed it four blocks before he hailed the yellow cab that brought him into the city. Parking is impossible in this part of town and he was already so jittery from the drive and the coffee and the joy that he was liable to cause a pile-up of his own.

The automatic door swishes open to an almost empty lobby. He has a room number scribbled on a sticky note in his pocket, but he doesn't need it – 413. Jim nods at a stone-faced security guard, weaving through a couple of seating areas and some seriously oversized planters, to stab the elevator button with more gusto than is necessary at 6:47 a.m.

"Where you headed, sir?" the guard, an older gentleman, calls out.

Jim cringes. He knows it's absolutely too early for visiting hours. He turns his widest, most trustworthy smile on the inquisitor. "New grandson in 413," he replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"The maternity nurses don't care for visitors before breakfast."

Jim steps away from the elevator doors and backtracks to the guard's desk. The uniformed man's brass name tag glints in the florescent lights. Malone. _Officer_ Malone. Not only a security guard, but an enameled NYPD retirement pin shines from the pocket flap of his crisp, black shirt.

"How many years did you have with the department, officer?" Jim inquires. "My daughter upstairs, she works homicide at the Twelfth."

Malone pulls up in his chair, shoulders and back even straighter, if possible. "Twenty-nine years." He's eye-balling Jim like somebody should lock up the good silver, says nothing about Jim's cop daughter. So much for the fraternity among officers.

Jim pulls out his wallet to show the man his driver's license. "My name is Jim Beckett, and my daughter, Detective Kate Beckett, and her husband, Richard Castle, are in room 413. Now Katie would clobber me right about now, but I pretty much don't care how shameless I appear as long as I get to see her. I've been awake since 3 a.m. and I drove in bad weather to get her as soon as I could. It was a surprise, the baby came early," Jim expels, all in one breath.

Officer Malone apparently isn't a man easily moved. Or he doesn't like babies. Or he needs more fiber. Or all of the above. At any rate, it's not looking good, and Jim's early morning bravado flags a little.

"I'm not above a little bribery. I can get Richard to buy box seats to the Yankees. Unless you're a Mets fan, which he will object to on mine and his wife's behalf, but he'll do it if I ask." Off Malone's raised eyebrow, "Bribing a cop...right. I'll shut up now," Jim acquiesces. "Except to say please, because saying please never hurts. So...please?" He leans in for the kill. "Do you have grandchildren, officer?"

Malone sighs heavily, and Jim's spirit soars as he senses an opening.

"My girl's an early riser," Jim assures him. "I won't be bothering anybody up there, I promise. I'll be quiet as a mouse."

The guard ponders him, pulling off his cap to scratch his hand through a sparse head of silver hair. Jim smiles like nothing's out of place, willing the man to realize that visiting hours clearly shouldn't to a man as proud as him. As discrete as him. As absolutely pants-peeing excited as James Henry Beckett. "I'm sorry," Jim implores, "I know I'm bucking the visiting hours. It's just been a really long road to this point, and I-"

Malone holds up a hand to put an end to Jim's embarrassment. "That elevator you were about to take opens up right in front of the nurse's station, which is a huge mistake. Take the north stairs instead," he advises, waving his hat over his shoulder behind the guard's desk. "The four-teens are on the hall to the left. You didn't hear it from me. You really, _really_ didn't hear this from me."

Jim knows, later he will review his conduct and probably take exception with himself, but for now, in the foggy, early morning glow of new grandfatherhood, it's nothing but a win. "Did I tell you it's a boy, and they named him, his middle name, at least, after me? Which I really, _really_ don't deserve, but I'll take it."

"Go," the security guard commands. "Before I change my mind...and for the record, I have a two grandsons and _three_ granddaughters. I'm like nine years ahead of you in the brand of stupid it takes a perfectly respectable grown man to beg a guy like me for permission to do anything. You've got nothing on me."

"Thank you!" Jim calls as he jogs for the stairs, hesitating briefly inside the door. The stairwell in Katie and Rick's SOHO building is fancier than this, for sure, but the blind, winding thread of _any_ stairwell never fails to make him think of the story Katie told him about the day Cole Maddox met his match. Katie took her father there, after, when Rick was on crutches and she was still complaining about the itchy fiberglass cast on her wrist. Jim asked, so she showed him the chip in the stained concrete floor where the fire extinguisher landed; the tiny, hairline crack where Maddox's blood stubbornly refused to give way, and the cleaning service didn't notice.

Maddox, or Cedric Marx, rather, is living in Idaho. Jim isn't supposed to know that. Katie wasn't supposed to find out...or share if she did. There had been so many secrets, so many unspoken things of one kind or another for years, that once it was over, she didn't have it in her to keep any more. The hit man retained 45 percent normal use of his upper extremities, none of his lower. For a while after, on nights when he couldn't sleep, Jim wondered how bad a person it made him to wish it was even less.

_Unforgiveness, for whatever reason, is like pointing a loaded gun to your own head and hoping that the bullet kills your enemy._

Jim's first sponsor, Hector, used to tell him that all the time. He knows now without a doubt it's true. And Jim knows what he's been forgiven for, himself. He wonders if it's ever occurred to Cedric Marx to feel regret, beyond regretting ending up in a wheel chair. He's pretty sure Winter never gave it a moment's thought. The older Jim gets, the more the lines blur and run together; the more it aches and the less it stings.

It's humbling, forgiving someone else, and being forgiven. Jim thinks about. He thinks about it a lot.

Jim shakes off a shiver of dread, or more likely a wave of melancholy, at the sight of a the concrete treads and forges ahead, rounding the three flights in record time.

He halts, hand on the door to the fourth floor, to catch his breath and scout for hospital staff. The coast looks clear, as far as he can tell through the narrow security glass window, and he eases the door open for a better look. Nothing.

The sign on the opposite wall indicates rooms 400-426 to his left, and he pulls the door gently closed behind him. With his back to the wall, slips quietly past several rooms, until he's face to face with the number 413. It's pushed to, but not entirely closed. He taps very lightly with a knuckle, but there's no response from within. He takes a breath and pushes it open a few inches.

With only the light from the hallway to guide his way, he can see Katie's bed is near the door; her back to him. On the far side of the room, Rick snores softly, legs propped up on a chair and his head tipped against the back of a less than inviting-looking sofa. Alexis is stretched out length-wise on the sofa with her head propped up on her father's leg. They're all asleep in the shadows. Jim curses his own impatience - he should have waited.

Out in the hallway, the soft squeak of tennis shoes prompts Jim to slip in and push closed the over-wide door, plunging the room into darkness. It's not the time, so close to his goal, to be ousted by a prickly maternity nurse. He passes what he thinks is the foot of the bed, and promptly stubs his toe on a mystery object. The older man cringes, hoping it wasn't audible outside the door. The footfalls pass by and disappear down the hall, and Jim lets out a sigh of relief.

Then, there's a rustling sound, a grunt, the smacking, of tiny lips. Jim feels to his left, where his hand lights on a the hard plastic wall of...a rolling bassinet...which he just kicked. "Oaf," he mutters to himself, as he gingerly gropes over the side of the clear, acrylic bassinet to rest his hand on the now-squirming bundle that is his tiny, newborn grandson.

"My father, the ninja."

He can't make out her expression, but he can surely hear the smirk in his daughter's very awake-sounding whisper.

"Payback for all the times you tried to sneak into the house after curfew," Jim counters quietly, only slightly chagrined. "I really, really want to hold him."

"Sink's behind you. Wash up first?"

"Right." Jim nods, shrugging out of his coat and dropping it on the foot of the bed. He pivots and after a couple of steps, smacks ungracefully into the vanity. Kate snickers faintly and Jim growls as he finds the soap dispenser and faucet by touch. He pulls a handful of paper towels from the wall dispenser, dries his hands, and pitches the resulting wad of damp paper towels in the general direction of his daughter. Kate's eyes are perfectly adjusted to the low light and she easily bats the ball away to the floor.

"There's a perfectly uncomfortable rocking chair right up here by me," Kate offers.

Back at the foot of the bed, he gropes around for the bassinet, where the baby is still snuffling and squirming around. He feels his way along the narrow aisle between the bed and the bassinet, finding his daughter's hand, arm, shoulder, and he makes a successful blind attempt at kissing her on the top of the head. "Hi, Katie."

"Hi, Dad." Kate holds him close for a moment, hand behind his neck, foreheads together, and breathes in Old Spice and wood smoke. "How was the cabin?" she whispers, letting go.

"Got out ahead of a front, they're saying six to eight inches tonight."

"Hmm, good timing."

Jim feels for the arm of the rocker, and oriented, pulls the bassinet closer. He's finally adjusting to the dimness, and he leans down and gingerly takes up his grandchild, one hand under his head and the other under his bottom. For a long moment, he just stands there, the tightly swaddled baby boy pulled close to his chest, wondering exactly how necessary air is. He's glad for the darkness, and for Rick and Alexis still sleeping, because there would be no hiding the tears rolling down his cheeks. He knows from Rick's text photos that Ethan has a full head of dark hair, like Katie did, and it tickles his nose and chin when he softly presses his lips to the crown of the boy's head.

The rocker is just behind him; Jim carefully shuffles back until his calves hit it, and sits.

"How did you get up here without being seen?" Kate asks. "My nurse is a little militant."

Her father clears his throat as quietly as he can. "The lobby security guard is retired from the job. He gave me a little bit of a hard time, but ended up telling me which stairs to take to avoid the nurses' station. I think I owe him season tickets or an Escalade or something."

Kate ignores the roughness of her father's voice. So much to attribute that to, and she's so glad he's here, and it won't serve to call attention to it now.

"It was kind of thrilling, actually," he continues on a whisper. "A little reconnoiter here, a little sneaking around there." Jim is giddy and rambling. "My best James Bond impersonation."

Kate's response is half, laugh, half sigh. "That might be the perfect segue, Dad."

"Oh?"

"Do you have plans for Saturday night? Ones you can't cancel, anyway?"

The baby, who has finally settled against him, lets out a tiny sneeze. Jim mouths out a near-silent bless you against his brow, patting him lightly on the butt. "Before I was so _untimely interrupted_, I was going to be at the cabin until Sunday night, so no plans. Why?"

Kate shoots her father a half-hearted glare that he can't see. "Family dinner at our house. We have...introductions to make. No," she corrects herself. "We're introduced, really. Except for you. But something else. Big. It's complicated."

Jim, who has spent the entire conversation so far trying to catch the glint of his grandson's eyes in a narrow point of light coming in the window, finally turns his full attention to his daughter. Kate has pushed herself up on her elbow to see him at eye level.

"Katie?"

She's so tired. It's been a long day...two days. She blows a long, exhausted breath out through her nose, stalling for time to find a way to frame this in a way that doesn't sound like the TV Guide summary of a soap opera. "Rick's father is back in the picture. We didn't think we'd hear from him until the summer, but he showed up...here...tonight."

_That_ is unexpected news. The whoosh of air that leaves Jim trails off to nothing, like a low whistle, but without the sound. "Is Rick okay with that?"

"He's...wary? But willing. Tense. Curious. He's Rick, Dad."

"Yeah." Jim's jaw clinches. Rick is _not_ his son. And Jim knows it's not really his business. Except Rick's happiness is directly tied to Katie's, and _that_ makes this Jim's business. And Rick, in practice, if not in DNA, has been more Jim's son for the last few years more than anyone else's on earth, _including_ Charles Trent. But it's none of his business. Seriously.

Jim takes a long look across the room where his son-in-law and granddaughter still sleep on the blocky-looking sofa. Jim gave up referring to Alexis as anything else the weekend Rick and Kate married. The first time Rick heard it from Jim's lips, _granddaughter_, was at a dinner party a few months later at the loft. Rick had teared up and excused himself to the office for a couple of minutes.

"If he hurts Rick, I'm going to run this Trent guy over with my car."

On any other night, Kate would laugh. Or chastise her father for being too melodramatic. But tonight, everything is so close to the surface, and Kate can't bring herself to do anything other than agree. "Not if I shoot him first."


	21. Chapter 21

AN: OK, so this chapter is not what it should be. But I've labored over it long enough. After this experiment, I think I can say humor probably isn't my strong suit. But I have to move along or I'll never get to post the last couple of chapters. Apologies, dear reader.

* * *

It's no longer dark outside the next time a visitor disrupts the sanctity of the fourth floor. It's a hair past the start of approved visiting hours, and Lanie's promise to give the Castle clan a lazy, uninterrupted morning is proven to be rubbish. Times three. Ryan and Esposito are close on Lanie's heels with a tray full of lattes and a greasy wax paper sack.

When Lanie breaches the door of room 413, she is met with a mishmash chorus of gentle snoring. Kate is drooling into her pillow. A pleasant surprise, Jim Beckett is dozing in a Naugahyde recliner up next to his daughter, apparently arrived direct from the cabin in a rumpled flannel shirt. Castle and Alexis are lumped together in an oblivious knot on the sofa.

The latest Castle baby is, unlike the adults, completely awake, his little face turned toward the far window where a faint shaft of light pierces the room. His tiny fingers, uncoordinated though they are, strain toward the beam where it cuts across his bassinet like a physical object.

It's wrong. She knows it's wrong. But Lanie Parish, MD, woman of action, cannot bring herself to withdraw and let them snooze. And besides, if Ethan is awake, it will be only minutes before he's wet enough or hungry enough to rouse them all anyway. Actually, she's doing the little guy a favor, waking up the grownups for him. Score one for Aunt Lanie.

She casts a commanding look at her taggers on, who are lined up along the wall by Beckett's bed, still holding their wares. Esposito is a little mortified that they're here, this early, en mass, and in the company of Ryan, who has been jabbering like a tree monkey for the last 35 minutes and looks right now like he might burst at the seams with the force off too much restrained joy. Lanie rolls her eyes and nods at Ryan as she squeezes out a generous portion of the hospital-quality hand sanitizer from the wall-mounted dispenser by the door. Let Ryan wake up the woman who carries a gun for a living. If Beckett kills anybody, it might as well be him.

Ryan unwinds his scarf in the warmth of the room, and the wax paper bag he's holding crinkles at a decibel level roughly on par with a canon shot. "Dude!" Esposito mouths the word, soundlessly laying the tray of coffees on the table at the foot of Kate's bed. Ryan rolls his eyes. Ridiculous man.

"Beckett," Ryan begins on a whisper, ignoring the dirty look Esposito is still giving him.

Nothing.

"Beeeeeckeeeeeeet," he sings.

"Go. Away." The power of Beckett's order falls flat, being as it's spoken almost face first into her pillow.

"Hey there, boss!" Ryan crows.

Beckett grunts and pushes away from the pillow. "I'm gonna kick-"

"Cute kid, Beckett," Ryan declares after flicking on the light over Kate's bed. "He has your ears."

His boss squints in the light and mutters something that sounds a lot like _good luck solving your own murder._ Ryan smiles broadly, an insubordinate twinkle in his too-blue eyes.

Beckett squints back at him in the glare from the florescent light. _Jerk._ She stretches out and kicks Ryan in the gut, albeit anemically, with a sock-clad foot. "There better be at least two bear claws in that bag."

"Six," Esposito whispers, tipping Ryan's paper bag his own direction to open it and take inventory of the selection. "And two Bismarks and a sour cream doughnut and a some glazed and chocolate frosted, and couple of walnut maple coffee bars and-" he wrinkles his nose, "- something with strawberry frosting and pink sugar sprinkles."

Lanie, who has been studying the nurses' scrawl on the little white board by the door, spins on a kitten heel and pokes Esposito in the chest, _hard_. "Javier Esposito, I don't care what my best good girlfriend pushed out of you know where. You give away my pink doughnut and we're going to have words."

Espo scowls. His wife of one year volleys back a military-grade raised eyebrow. A retort shrivels and dies on the tip of his tongue.

Across the room, Castle stirs and buries a single word in a yawn behind his hand. "Haaaaaaaww_whipped_."

Espo refocuses his dirty look on Castle. "Laugh it up _Writer_ _Boy_," he warns in his normal speaking voice. His, snotty, affronted, normal speaking voice. "There's _nada_ in this bag for you."

Alexis, not entirely awake, rolls of her father's shoulder and face-plants unceremoniously on the opposite arm of the sofa. "If you didn't bring me coffee, you are _not_ my friends_._"

"She's right, hand over the bean," Castle agrees, waving Kevin over. "We didn't sleep until after three. Why _are_ you here?"

Kevin inspects the coffee carrier, plucking our a caramel macchiato and a mint mocha, and slips past Lanie to hand them off to the occupants of the sofa. "Because you love us and can't imagine not sharing this incredible, life-changing, life-affirming moment with us," Ryan insists, making no effort to bite back his smile. "And because we carpool and the good doctor has three stiffs on the slab and this was the only time she thought she'd get by here today."

"Oh, don't blame this all on me, Irish," Lanie counters "You were on my doorstep at ten 'til six, bouncing like Christmas morning."

Ryan shrugs and turns to get a better look at little Ethan in his crib. "I deny nothing." Then turning to the occupants of the sofa," "Dude, you're all..." Ryan waves a hand over the back of his head. "Like a Chia pet."

"I have morning breath, too, sunshine." Castle blows an exaggerated kiss, and Ryan waves it away, giggling like a little girl. Like a hyper, seven-year old little girl.

Alexis groans, scraping her hair back. "Both of you. Shut up."

"I want my baby," Lanie declares, stepping around the foot of the bed to where little Ethan is swaddled in the bassinet. Jim, playing possum thus far, squints up at his daughter's best friend. Lanie smiles too sweetly at him. "Jim, get your skinny butt outta that chair, I have business to attend to."

Javi snorts, pleased beyond all measure to see his wife bossing around any man other than him.

"I, uh, I'll just..." Jim waves toward the bathroom door and excuses himself.

Lanie scoops the baby up and settles in the chair. Ethan, delighted to be freed from the bassinet, coos as Lanie rubs noses with him.

Kate groans and scoots up in bed until she can rest mostly upright against her pillows. "You _wake_ us all up at an unholy hour," she starts, ticking off on her fingers. "You insult my husband's hair. You boss around my aging father-"

"I heard that!" Jim interjects from behind the bathroom door.

Kate rolls her eyes. "-and all I have to say about that is W_here. Is. MY. Coffee._"

"Oh!" Ryan exclaims, charging over to take another cup from the carrier and presenting it with a flourish.

"Now _that's_ how you treat a new mother," Beckett grunts out, tipping back the venti cup.

Javi shoots his partner approximately the fiftieth dirty look of the morning. "Suck up."

Ryan cannot stop smiling. He's intimately acquainted with the snuggles and tears and sleeplessness and spit-up of a newborn, thanks to one Ms. Erin Marie Ryan,. Nothing short of geothermal nuclear war will dampen the thrill of seeing other people he loves losing as much sleep as he has. He carries around the bakery bag, expertly doling out the breakfast goods, even making a good guess when he hands the just emerged Jim an Americano and a coffee bar. Jim hums happily in approval.

Castle and daughter wearily slurp down their coffees, waiting for Ryan to turn their way with the pastries.

"This. Is. _Decaf._"

Every man in the room freezes, including Ethan, whose wrinkly little fingers pause in the air, inches from the bright slash of Lanie's chunky silver necklace. Alexis rolls her eyes and crams another petal off her sour cream doughnut into her mouth. Only Lanie has the guts to reply, and very frankly, at that, tossing a nod in the direction of the yellow, breast pump contraption in the corner behind Kate's bed.

"You're baby's on the boob, girl. If you want this kid to sleep at all, it's decaf and chamomile tea for the duration. When you want real coffee, think about your sleep, and your boobs, and say no."

"Boobs," Ryan echoes earnestly.

Jim starts to laa-laaa-laaa around a mouthful of his pastry, trying to plug his ears, and hold a coffee cup and his breakfast at the same time. Kate mutters death threats from behind the hand covering her face.

"You should be grateful fancy pants over there was so thoughtful," Lanie adds.

Espo clears his throat in disgust as his partner preens, grins impossibly wider and tugs on the bottom of his very stylish vest.

"I have a baby, you know. I know stuff. Baby stuff," Ryan insists, looking around to make sure everyone is listening. "Jenny drank a cup of leaded the day after we got home from the hospital and we didn't sleep for two days. _Two daaaaayyyyysssss._" Ryan nods at Beckett, an air of solemnity about him as the thumps the lid of her cup, nodding. "Decaf."

Be it the new-found evils of coffee, or Ryan's almost manic state, she's not entirely sure, but either way, Kate's coffee cup lands on the bedside table with a thud and a splash_. _

Lanie balances the newborn in one arm and a pink sprinkle special in the other. "Baby boy, your momma is going to be so grumpy without her coffee. Really grumpy. A total harpy, in fact. But it won't last forever."

"Lanie!" Kate threatens.

"Really, Lanie?" Castle joins her.

Lanie's head rotates like something out of a Blatty film and pins Castle with the glare she's reserved so far for her husband. "Shut up, coffee pimp. Remember, that the baby and the caffeine DTs are both your doing."

Castle gapes, fish-mouthed, no reply forthcoming. Alexis, Esposito and Jim snort in stereo, and Ryan's smile threatens to split his face wide open.

Kate has lost all control of the room. It is too early for this. She loves them. Really. But they need to go.

All of them.

_Right now._

She looks around, desperate for some excuse. And finds one right in front of her.

"Wow, I really need to change these nursing pads," Kate declares, pulling out the neckline so she can look down the front of her gown. She's not even sorry when Esposito gags and spits a stream of vanilla latte across her blanket.

"Oh! Jenny found this place online where you can order organically-grown cotton ones that are washable. She was having this chafinmmmf-"

Rick shoots his wife an alarmed look as Javi, with the precision of a man trained to kill, divests his partner of the bakery bag, throws it on the counter, and shoves Ryan to the door with a hand clamped over the man's mouth. The phrase "baby-related verbal diarrhea" echoes out in the hall, where Ryan is being marched away under threat of bodily harm. In Spanish.

Jim wheels on Lanie. "He shouldn't be carrying a gun in that condition."

"He's usually OK by his third cup of coffee," Lanie assures Kate's father. "And if it gets really out of hand, Javi has a buddy in the K-9 unit with a tranquilizer gun."

Lanie kisses her new little acquaintance on the forehead and lays him gently in Kate's lap "Still, since I'd rather not have to autopsy somebody I know, I'd better get moving." And to her best friend, "Kate, that boy is a treasure, and I'm going to spoil him stone cold rotten. Just you wait and see!"

Slinging her purse and coat over her arm, Lanie plucks her chai latte from the cardboard carrier with a flourish and breezes out the door. Her heels click away down the hall, and as abruptly as they arrived, they are gone.

Blissfully, blessedly gone.

Kate takes a deep, cleansing breath. It's quiet but for Ethan's smacking and gurgling, the other adults too shell-shocked to speak. She gives them all a minute to recover, reveling in the quiet, but eventually nature intervenes.

"I really need to pee. And I need to try to feed him. And I need bear claw. In that order."


	22. Chapter 22

The elevator door glides open and Rick kicks the bags out into the hallway. Her purse and the empty baby carrier follow, which earn him a dirty look, but it's half-hearted at best. Rick has a vase of flowers in each hand, waving yellow tulips at the sensor so the doors don't close before Kate slips out with her newborn son curled up in a blanket against her chest.

She insisted on taking Ethan out of the carrier in the lobby to Eduardo could get a good look. She wants to bring Ethan into the apartment herself, which Castle started to point out wasn't entirely necessary, but three words into voicing that opinion, he was compelled to shut up. Not because of a withering look or a sharp retort, but because she leaned in and kissed him into submission.

He will always submit to that.

The lure of actually being home is strong and they leave the bags in the middle of the hall floor for the moment. Kate trails a step behind, more intent on bundle in her arms than watching ahead, and she bumps into Castle as he hugs both vases one-armed to his chest and fishes out his keys.

Rick stills, turning over his shoulder to meet his wife's gaze, and flashes back to another moment in the same hallway. It's in her eyes - she's thinking the same thing. Her gaze flicks away to the stairwell door for a minute, followed by an odd twist of her lips. Kate shakes her head resolutely. "Not today."

"Right," Castle agrees, unlocking the door. "Not today."

When the door swings inward, they are greeted by the fragrance of lemon floor wax and the rich, spicy aroma of Martha's green chicken chili. Kate blinks - the great room positively sparkles, the floor shining like a mirror. A few steps further into the room, she spies the over large crock pot on the kitchen counter, and believes with her whole heart she's about to weep again when the sound of her mother-in-law's heels click on the stairs.

"Darlings! Your here!" Martha exclaims in a stage whisper, coming to meet them. "Perfect timing!"

Martha bypasses the grownups to plant a lipstick kiss on her snoozing grandson's head and turns with a flourish in the direction of the kitchen. "The chili is on warm and the cornbread is nearly ready. Don't get too excited, it's just Jiffy from the box."

"Dad! Kate!" Alexis slides in the front door, dragging their bags from the hallway, along with one of her own.

Martha jerks a thumb toward the kitchen. "Soup's on, kiddo."

"I'll be two minutes." Alexis dumps the other bags inside the door and heads up the stairs to deposit her own bag in her old room.

Rick carefully places the vases on the kitchen table and looks around. Aside from the small disaster by the sink where Martha earlier prepped their dinner, the rest of the room is spotless. Two glass bowls on the bar are overflowing with bananas, apples and oranges. The pantry door is open, and overflowing with staples. Kate shoots Rick a little look, her shoulders sagging in exhaustion, but an undeniable smile tugging at her lips.

"Mother, did Rebecca come clean early?"

"Oh Richard, I called the service. You're going to have a host of well wishers in and out of here over the next few days, and I couldn't imagine anyone here feels like picking up. They sent over a small army. They even brought that portable scissor lift thingy and cleaned up in the rafters." Martha's arms sweep dramatically toward the ceiling, a wave of aqua silk flapping in their wake. "You could perform surgery up there. The house hasn't been this clean since you bought it. That sweet Rebecca, she changed the sheets and did all the laundry. Eduardo had the valet service deliver your dry cleaning. And I had groceries sent over. Other than the little one's doctor appointment, neither of you has to go anywhere for a couple of weeks if you don't want to."

"I love you," Kate blurts out, followed immediately by the growl of her empty stomach. "...and your chicken chili."

"Katherine, I didn't lift a finger but to dial the phone. I've always had a knack for spending Richard's money. And before you get all misty, I had them clean my place, too and charged it all to Richard's Visa." Martha winks and reaches for Ethan. "Give me that baby and go get cleaned up. Supper in ten."

Martha kicks her heels off under the table and floats away with Ethan. It's odd, watching Rick's mother do that. She'd done the same thing a few days before, the night the baby was born, dropping her heels under the hospital bed before she accepted the boy from Alexis. Only weeks before, she'd had a little "tumble" as she described it, at her school. Just a few bruises and a mild ankle sprain due to missing the bottom stair coming down from her office at the school. And while they didn't talk about it much at the time, it scared them all a little. Kate catches her husband's eye for a moment, and he shrugs. "She's just being careful."

Kate nods, grateful, and a little sad, snagging the tail of Rick's shirt as he scoops up their two bags and heads for the bedroom. She trails behind, watching over her shoulder as Martha waltzes through the kitchen with her newborn grandson.

Martha is a lot closer to 70 than 60 now, and it is showing. She parties a little less, rests a little more. Her beloved school is a bona fide success. At first she applied her star power and connections nonstop to get students and funding in the door, and productions off the ground. She beat down doors and schmoozed with the high fliers, scraping for any advantage, all the while, attending all the rehearsals, scouring for students and carefully selecting material. But now she spends a lot more time observing and advising, and letting her modest but gifted staff and not so modest endowment supply the day-to-day operations.

New York is overrun with rich folks, some of whom genuinely want to support the arts, and others who are more interested in being seen about town and having their name listed in the topmost tier of a program handed out on opening night - a gold donor, platinum donor, legacy donor, whatever sounds better (or richer) than everyone else on the list. Martha has charmed them all, from the genuine theater maven, to the crass moneybag, and leaves them all feeling like they've contributed materially to the enrichment of the theater.

She's the grand dame, having quietly, relentlessly worked her little school into a genuine, pint-sized artistic phenomenon. Every year, The Little Black Box Theater School sends another, newly, lovingly polished gem to the Great White Way. And she's settled into her role with such grace and good humor that not even a prickly pickle like her old nemesis Una Marconi can find fault with Martha Rogers anymore. And sly fox that Martha is, she guaranteed the woman's good will by funding a little scholarship, the Marconi fellowship, that welcomes a promising new candidate of modest means, every January, for a year-long, intensive foray into stagecraft. Martha even gave Una a little walk-on role as a crazy aunt, and spun it so masterfully that her rival declared it the opportunity of a lifetime.

Of course, now it's impossible for Una to review Martha's work with any critical credibility, and so every review, and they're all favorable nowadays, begins with a disclaimer about how she can't possibly be objective about the dear, _dear_ Little Black Box Theater, but since she's typically correct about these sorts of things anyway, the reader should take that into account.

Lots of people adore Martha. All those years ago, Kate never realized the degree to which she would be one of them.

She always liked the woman's welcoming spirit, admired her spunk, appreciated her warmth and good humor. But following her husband into their bedroom now, Kate is overwhelmed with the possibility, however far in the future, that Martha won't be around. The postpartum fiesta of emotion striking again, of course. She swipes quickly under her eyes before Castle can turn around and see her.

Her husband dumps a suitcase full of dirty clothes in the hamper and deposits their toiletries in the bathroom while Kate wrestles of her jacket and pitches in he direction of the corner chair. Kate sinks down on the foot of the bed, sorely tempted to pull the covers over her head and surrender to the siren call of their space age California king and thousand thread count sheets. But no. Martha made them dinner, a _wonderful_ dinner. Kate's favorite, no less, she thinks to herself with a sniffle. Chili first, exhaustion later.

She gives her eyes one more quick swipe, attempting to mentally reboot before Rick figures out exactly how close his wife is to crying in her soup. He's banging around in the closet for a minute, putting up the suitcases and whatever else, and suddenly he's standing in front of her, so close she's staring at the rivet on the pocket of his jeans.

"When'd you get so stealthy?" It's huskier than she hoped for, and her husband palms the back of her head, carding his fingers through her hair.

"I know you're exhausted, but is it really worrying you that much? Mother's...situation?"

She looks up into eyes that know too much, see everything, just like always, and shrugs.

Castle sits down beside Kate, drawing her into his side. She goes easily, turning her face into his flannel shirt.

"I never told Mother, but when I got my first big check for Flowers for Her Grave, I paid a private investigator to find out what became of her father. Six weeks later he called, sounding so regretful. Her father had made an art form out of misdemeanor assaults and petty theft, and even spent seven months in his early seventies in the Ohio state pen for assaulting a waitress who brought him the wrong kind of pie." Rick pauses, shaking his head at the insanity of that. "He died eight years ago in a state nursing home outside of Cincinnati - emphysema.

"Sometimes I wonder if I should tell her, but I'm not sure it would be much of a comfort knowing he never mended his ways. But the part of this story that's relevant now is that when he died, he was four days short of his 91st birthday. If that kind of longevity, as hard as he lived, is any indication, then Martha Rodgers is going be around to see her grandson graduate from high school, and maybe even college...provided she doesn't take up smoking in her seventies."

She laughs at that, a light airy gasp against his shoulder, and he gives her a sideways squeeze. "Do you want to crash? Mother would totally understand."

"No, never," Kate asserts, sitting up straight and running hands through her hair. "I want that chili. It's the singular, unqualified masterpiece in her universe of culinary disasters, and I had a hospital turkey sandwich for lunch. I want to feed Ethan and shower and fall asleep on a full stomach and get four completely uninterrupted hours of sleep before he wakes us up."

"That's a good plan." Kate's husband stands, dragging her upright as well, and steers them out into the great room, where Alexis is setting the table and Martha is dishing up steaming bowls of chili. Ethan is still sleeping, propped up in his carrier at the end of the table for all to see.

Castle deposits Kate at her chair and returns a minute later with two heaping bowls. Kate leans over, nose almost in the bowl and inhales. Green chilis, shredded chicken, sweet corn, onions and navy beans float in a savory broth, over a bed of crushed tortilla chips. A few slices of freshly added avocado float on top. Castle butters a steaming wedge of cornbread and hands it to Kate. When she looks up to take it, the other ladies are taking their seats. Martha passes a bowl of shredded jack cheese and Kate adds a heaping spoonful and pokes it so it melts over the whole top of her bowl and sticks and strings on her spoon.

She hasn't even taken a bite yet, and she's so happy laughs out loud before she knows it's coming. The conversation around her halts, spoons suspended in mid air. Kate looks around, and for a moment considers being embarrassed, and finds its not worth the effort. "I haven't had any heartburn since the delivery. So I'm going to positively hurt myself tonight. Fair warning."

Martha's stack of wildly-colored bangles rattles against the tabletop as she pats Kate's arm. "It's all right, dear girl. I was a loon when I brought Richard home from the hospital. All we had in the larder was a couple of tins of sardines and a box of saltine crackers. My father ate them all the time, and my whole pregnancy long the smell made me sick as a dog. When Richard and I dragged in from the hospital, the landlord's wife had pity on me and brought up a sack of groceries and the biggest pot of beef stew I'd ever seen. I think I ate it two meals a day for a week, and at the time I was sure it was the best thing I ever eaten. Ever since, I've had a very emotional connection to home cooking." Martha leans in, as if she were sharing a secret. "It's one of the reasons I've blessed Richard, our master chef, with my sage and comforting presence, so nearby, for so long."

"All I had to do was stop cooking?" Castle quips, and narrowly ducks a flying napkin ring.

Martha scowls past Kate at her son, but only briefly, his cheeky grin belying his words.

"Martha, thank you for all of this. It's the best homecoming I can think of. It's perfect."

It's the older woman's turn to feel the tug of emotion, and Martha's voice is a little rough when she replies. "Anything I can do."

Kate doesn't trust her own voice, but nods, focused intently on her bowl. She takes a bite, and hums in approval. It's very, very good.

And then Ethan startles awake.

"My turn." Alexis is up before any of them can move, carefully unbuckling him from the carrier. She leans in, gently lifting the boy to hold against her shoulder before she pulls to her full height, just like a pro. He's little enough yet that when she sits again, she can support him with one hand, and handle her spoon with the other.

It looks so practiced, like Ethan isn't this brand new fixture in their lives. Like Alex is has been waiting all along for this. Rick wondered what it would look like, his baby girl, with her baby brother. It should be weird but it's not at all. Ethan is just one more person to love, and that's something Alexis has always done with aplomb.

Alexis pauses eating to pat her squirming brother on the back. "Unless you have other plans, I'll take the first shift. I took a really long nap this afternoon and I need to study, so I'll be up anyway. If that's okay."

Kate doesn't even look up from her dinner. "I'll feed him before bed. Can you bring him to me about two o'clock? He may not wake up by then, but he'll need to eat."

"Perfect," Alex assents.

Rick looks between his wife and daughter, and over to his mother. A sly smile is tugging at Martha's lips, but she says nothing. This is a well-oiled machine, whatever this is. A family, it occurs to him, dumbly. It's not like it hasn't crossed his mind before now. He's even used the word, frequently. _My family._ And it's Ethan, of course, bringing that all to pass. Or maybe the boy is just serving to highlight for Rick exactly how far they've come. Together.

"Hey," Castle interrupts his own musings. "I've almost been afraid to ask. What's going on with this dinner? Nobody said anything to me."

"Just striking while the iron is hot, my boy," Martha reassures him. A little impromptu planning on our part. You're not opposed, are you?"

Two other heads pop up at that, Kate and Alexis intent on him. "I...no. I think it's good. I mean, I hope it's good. I was just surprised."

"If it craters, you can blame it on me, my son. We need to bring your father in from the cold, so to speak." Martha smirks. "And frankly, the last time I saw your father was in very low light, as I was closing down the theater for the night. I need to see if she's still as handsome as he always has been."

"He is," the other two women at the table chorus together.

"Aha!" Martha exclaims gleefully, and raises her glass. "To handsome men!"


End file.
